Revolutions, Great and Small 1 Rekindling the Fire
by storytellers
Summary: Series: How friends, enemies and big messes are created. Book 1: How do you keep talking about tomorrow when tomorrow was supposed to be today and today looks a little too much like yesterday?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I know I still have the ending of "Worth of a Man" to post but I couldn't wait any longer. The first few chapters of this have been getting moldy on my hard drive for ages. For anyone who has read WoaM, this is not the same universe but it will have some things in common. All of the Christian names I have picked for the Amis and a short note on how I imagine them to look can be found on my profile page (thank you TW and Sythar for making me realize that's the best place to put such things, I hope you don't think I'm ripping you off by starting this series).

I'm also ripping off "Bridget Jones' Diary" of all things. Enjolras as Bridget. Really. I knew drinking all of Grantaire's alcohol to try and make him quit was a bad idea.

In addition, each book has a short poem by Prouvaire that gives the book its title but you won't see the poem until the end.

Naturally, I will be extremely grateful to anyone who reviews. And now, on we go.

**Revolutions, Great and Small**

**Book one**

**Rekindling the Fire**

_**15**__**th**__** December, 1830**_

_Revolutions completed – 1_

_Point of completed revolutions considering that we've just exchanged one bad government for another – 0_

_Revolutions to be planned – 1 (hopefully)_

This is Adrien Denis Enjolras, starting this diary for administrative purposes.

Discovered lately that head is in too much disarray to properly contain affairs of secret revolutionary organization. Fear that, if do not quickly find a way to put things in order and remember them, it may be hurtful to Cause. Have debated for a long time whether risk of putting dealings of self and aforementioned organization on paper is warranted. Written account of our endeavors will mean putting not only self but other members in danger. However, decided that, in view of enormous campaign we will be undertaking, will be impossible to rely on self's memory alone.

As a precaution, I'm writing in Latin in the hopes that anyone unfamiliar with the language will simply consider these pages schoolwork. In addition, will do everything in my power to keep this diary from falling into the hands of policemen, government agents and enemies of the People.

This brings me to my reason for deciding upon being more organized.

The People of France are once again being oppressed by the enemies of Liberty. Despite all promises, the Revolution has brought us nothing but disappointment. (And bullet holes like the one in my shoulder which is only now starting to look healed.) We have exchanged one tyrannical monarch for another and the People of our country still rots in poverty. (Is 'rot' a good word? Obviously, the People is something beautiful and sacred and I'm not sure I should think of it as 'rotting'…)

I am now convinced more than ever that only a republic will answer the endless cries for justice and equality that seem to fill my ears even when I sleep. It is now up to us, the men of this country, to save it.

Have reassembled Les Amis de l'ABC and intend to hold a meeting tonight at the backroom of Café Musain. There is no time to waste. We need to start planning for a _new_ revolution. And this time we will truly fight for freedom. No more martyrs will die for the benefit of an overfed king who is deaf to the pleas of the People.

We were young and naïve when we joined the rest of Paris on the streets this summer. We believed that the fire in our hearts would brighten the darkness of the night and bring about a better tomorrow. Since then, we have grown older. Winter has come and the cold surrounds us again. The cold in the hearts of our government, the cold that kills the poor on the streets, the cold in the eyes of the heroes who died and never had their sacrifice honoured with the fulfillment of the ideals they gave their lives for.

I understand now that it will take a lot of effort and planning before we can fight our way to the future we all long for. And I, Adrien Enjolras, solemnly vow to devote my thoughts, my efforts and my life to the Cause.

As I write this, I am certain that the same oath will be on the lips and in the hearts of my comrades. And if we die in service of our country, through these pages, let us not be forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Regarding slash, because some people over here were asking me about it… Well, there is none in this book of the series. You would have known if there was. There may or may not be some in some of the later books. IF it does appear, you will be warned and those of you who are not inclined to read it will be able to skip those particular stories and pretend it's all just strong friendship. Which it kind of is. I'm rather of the opinion that 90% of any real relationship is friendship anyway. I won't be able to completely ignore any slashy themes on Grantaire's part simply because it's in the book and if you think it isn't… well, it's like saying Dorian Gray doesn't have slash in it. Pylades and Orestes? Come on. But, once again, I'll try to have something for everyone :)

**16th December**

_Amis seemingly lost faith in Cause – 4_

_Amis mysteriously missing from meeting – 1_

_Amis still worthy of the title – 1_

_Annoying drunkards – 1_

_Revolutions to be planned – still 1, despite alarming figures abov_e

Walked into the Musain yesterday evening and felt strangely elated to see my comrades assembled there again and occupying the same tables they had occupied last time I had seen them before the Pointless July Revolution.

It should sadden me that nothing seems to have changed since then, that France is once more in need of societies like ours. But for some reason I felt happy instead. Maybe because, for these last few months, I had felt almost…. Lost is not the word for it. But perhaps, as Combeferre says, I am unfit for living in the everyday world.

The thought of what I will do if I survive the final fight for freedom is strangely frightening. I long for the Republic but I fear I may be incapable of living in it. France is all I have and, when she needs me no more, will there be a place for me?

But, even if that day is to come, it is still in the future. On the bright side, I will probably not survive at all.

Pitiful attempt at a joke, that. I was never too good at jokes.

Either way, the less I think of all this nonsense, the better. Here and now, there is work to be done.

In any case, it is quite unforgivable of me to feel joy on account of the whole country's suffering, isn't it? Nobody seemed to notice how I grasped hands and exchanged embraces at the café, as if the occasion was my Birthday and not a serious discussion about the fate of Mother France. Hell, I was even glad to see Grantaire yesterday. That, if nothing else, shows that I must have been truly going mad with nothing of consequence to do. Of course, the infuriating winesack managed to quickly get on my nerves by openly grinning from ear to ear and barely shutting his mouth for five minutes all evening. Who told him about the meeting anyway? Must have been Courfeyrac. Have always appreciated Courfeyrac's good heart but, have to say, his kindness is sometimes misplaced. As well as his mind, on occasion. How he has managed to do so much work for our little circle while apparently spending all of his time falling in and out of love with various women is beyond comprehension. If I didn't know better, I would say he was only interested in skirts.

Women annoy me. They seem to serve as nothing more than distractions. Nothing good has ever come out of men who keep their thoughts on girls rather than the job they are supposed to be doing. Then again, Courfeyrac has never failed to get the job done, so I suppose it is possible to incorporate one's romantic affairs into more serious matters. In any case, I shall never understand how it's done. Not that I wish to, naturally.

Had trouble starting the meeting because everyone was so preoccupied coming up to date with each other's lives. I had very little to share but I let them go on for almost half an hour before I tried to get down to business. I rarely listen to what they talk about outside of the subjects of our meetings but it occurred to me just then that I had missed their chatter.

Hmm. Just started wondering out of nowhere what I must have talked about with my friends when I was a young boy and had no political views. Distinctly remember having at least a few friends then. Although, can't seem to recall what happened to them, let alone our topics of conversation. Some of them must be studying at the University as well. (The friends, that is, not the topics.) Yet our paths haven't crossed. Or if they have, I haven't noticed.

Either way…

Back at the meeting, when I finally managed to bring up our tyrannical government, there seemed to be a slight air of 'we just had a revolution, do we really need another one?' among my friends. I realize I should have expected it but… I didn't. And it felt like betrayal.

Combeferre always talks to me about human nature and he is sometimes nearly as bad as Grantaire. He says that humans are imperfect and, while we all can and should strive to better ourselves, in the end we are sometimes forced to accept people's shortcomings. Very depressing view. Sometimes I think 'human nature' in itself is depressing.

Twice as depressing when demonstrated by your own friends!

Combeferre of all people, trusted second-in-command and all, should not have looked so doubtful when I started speaking of new plans. I mean, yes, he always looks doubtful when gunpowder enters the conversation but usually it's just his reluctance to cause harm. This time it seemed like he was unsure about our ideas in general. I've always feared he'd grow tired of me someday but I hoped it wouldn't be so soon.

The others were no better. Courfeyrac, whom I have always known to be a vehement supporter of our Cause, was paying more attention to the lady's handkerchief he was sniffing every five minutes than to me. Joly and L'aigle were exchanging _apprehensive_ looks. For God's sake, they looked as if I was some half-crazed schoolteacher come to berate them about unfinished homework. Bahorel muttered agreements whenever I pronounced the word 'fight' but it looked like he was just doing it automatically.

I couldn't understand. We had given it almost half a year, hadn't we? We had waited to see if this new government would finally take care of the People. I mean, another monarchy was not what we had wanted in the first place but when they had all voted for giving the new king a chance, I had relented. I had been certain they would all change their minds when they saw the poor results of such misplaced trust. Instead, these hearts that had been previously filled with fire now seemed barely fit to be described as glowing embers. Did they think it had been a game? That our quest for justice had been a one-time enterprise and it had lost its charm?

Whatever it was, it had dampened their faith considerably. End result: faced with a room of less-than-enthusiastic Amis. Thought for a moment that Grantaire would laugh at me. And, by God, if he had done it, I would have hit him. Certainly wanted to hit _something_! And the damned drunk was smiling. Sitting in the corner with two bottles of wine in front of him and smiling, ever since the start of the meeting. The mockery in that smile was slowly frying my nerves. Had to repeatedly tell myself it was the usual mockery of the world in general and not specifically directed at poor 'Apollo'. (Although should not call self that on account of not being a Greek god, not even being Greek, and not being at all flattered by classic comparisons. Really.) Fact is, have never seen Grantaire smile without looking cynical so have no actual reason to assume he was purposefully making fun of me. And, to be fair, he didn't immediately open his mouth to make a comment about the less-that-fiery atmosphere in the room after my speech, so that was something of a blessing.

But since I couldn't find a proper excuse to berate the winesack, I was left with nothing to do but stand in front of my supposed fellow republicans and feel abandoned.

Then, thankfully, Prouvaire, bless his dear compassionate heart, started talking about children starving on the streets and the self-indulging bourgeois with such empathy that everyone finally became serious.

Everyone save for the winesack, of course, but that would have been too much to ask. Sometimes I think that even if God Almighty were to come down from the Heavens, he would not be able to force this man to behave.

As the meeting progressed with a more favorable air, he continued to stare at me, now sporting a smile that was about two inches short of splitting his face in half, and downed glass after glass of wine as if it was water.

"What, may I ask, do you find so pleasant about the pitiful state of our county, winesack?" I enquired finally, unable to take it anymore.

"The Sun is ablaze again!" he replied loudly, saluting me with his glass. "Apollo has returned to us. Poverty sounds so much more glorious and noble from your lips than when I see it on the streets. I cannot help but rejoice."

I glared at him but clenched my jaw to keep from replying. It would do no good. A conversation with Grantaire is a sure way to waste your time. I should really show him the way one of these days. The only thing stopping me is that the others seem to be amused by him.

However, what bothers me more than our resident drunk's incoherent babbling is the fact that Feuilly was missing and nobody seems to know why. Cannot imagine him of all people not rising to the occasion. Will have to check what's going on.

As I was gathering my papers, I noticed there was a sheet there covered in Prouvaire's writing. It was a short poem. I read it and smiled. I'm willing to bet he'd left it on purpose. I stuck it between the pages of the diary in case I feel like looking at it again. Dear Jehan…


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** I'm here, I'm here. I'm half dead but I'm here. Leave a review, it might resurrect me ;).

**December 20****th****, 1830**

_Revolutions to be planned – 1_

_Coughing and sniffling fan-makers showing up at door – 1_

_Guilty thoughts in regard to aforementioned fan-makers – 35 (approximately)_

Feuilly has been ill. No wonder, with the kind of almost non-existent coat he is wearing in this weather. He showed at my doorstep, barely recovered, to personally apologize for not attending the meeting, to assure me of his readiness to fight for the Cause and to ask what he had missed.

I almost kissed him.

Sometimes I feel that if I didn't have him and Prouvaire, I would have given up long ago. They are always my last resort, Fabrice and Jehan. Ever the believers. The world hasn't managed to spoil them one bit. They are the kind of people France will need most after the Revolution. Along with Combeferre, of course. That's what the new world will be built upon. Science and poetry and thirst for knowledge and hard work. And it will be built by the Combeferres and the Prouvaires and the Feuillys of our society. I can only pray that they will survive. I know not all of us will. But let Mother France protect those whom she will need to raise her again from the ashes. The rest of us will burn to light her way and be thankful for it.

But the man sitting on my couch this afternoon seemed barely fit to raise his bag, let alone France at the moment. You could tell he had not been well. His skin had a slight grayish tinge, although some colour had started returning to it now that he was inside a warm room. The hands that were fiddling with his hat in his lap were practically all bones. His wrists were so thin that my thumb and forefinger could have easily met around them.

Was it just from his recent illness? Or had the illness itself been caused by malnourishment and lack of warm clothes? Looking at the paper-thin coat, soaked with snow, which he hadn't taken off despite the fire in the room, I knew which one was more likely.

I hurried to place a cup of hot tea before him. As if that would solve anything. But it was polite.

Hah! That's Enjolras for you. I am only polite when I feel there is nothing better I can do.

The strange thing is that, had I seen him on the street, I might not have noticed there was anything wrong. Fabrice's natural bone structure is such that you can't tell how thin he is by looking at his face. Perhaps that's why poverty has done nothing to diminish his looks. Or so Courfeyrac says. I myself am a poor judge of looks. When I see a starving woman on the street with half of her teeth missing, my thought is that she is ill, not that she is ugly. The ladies Courfeyrac himself is always mooning about are in my eyes only prettier by merit of being healthy and well-dressed. I wonder if this inability to tell beauty from ugliness is what makes me so indifferent to young girls. Naturally, I would call Feuilly handsome but I would say the same about any of my friends. I find it pleasant to look at them – their faces, their expressions, their gestures. So they must all be handsome to me, isn't that so? And they are nothing alike so how can I say if one is handsomer than the others?

Feuilly interrupted my rather directionless contemplations with a scary-sounding cough.

"Sorry." He smiled at me sheepishly. "Still can't get rid of it. So, hm… What have you been up to those last few months?"

I shrugged.

"Nothing of consequence. Studies."

He gave me a half-amused, half-incredulous look.

"I'd say studies are of some consequence. But that's just me."

There was a tiny note of jealousy in his voice and I mentally slapped myself. Of course they were of consequence to someone who could not afford being a student.

"I suppose you are right," I said. "I guess they just seem an unimportant matter when compared to the welfare of the People."

"Ah, naturally," he agreed quickly. "Unfortunately, you can't eat books."

I almost commented that he looked like that was all _he_ had been eating lately.

"What about you?" I asked instead.

"Ah, nothing of consequence. Work."

He grinned and winked at me. I smiled forcefully at the friendly mockery and shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

"But you haven't been going to work in this state, have you?"

"I'm not being unnecessarily proud and refusing to take care of myself, if that's what you mean," he answered with a small laugh. "I took as many days off as I could afford last week. One more and the boss will kick me out. And finding work for fan-makers is not exactly that easy."

"If you need a loan, Feuilly…"

"Thank you but it's not a matter of a loan. If I'm absent too much, someone will replace me and I won't be able to find a new job."

For God's sake! Talking to Fabrice somehow always leaves me feeling guilty. I wonder if he occasionally thinks I am presumptuous – speaking of things I have seen but never really experienced. Who am I to speak of poverty? I, the rich boy who came to Paris to study. On occasion, I catch his eyes across the room at the Musain and I find myself amazed at the fact that he is listening to me. Listening and believing. What right do I have to lead him to his possible death? While he was teaching himself how to read and write, all alone in some dark corner with an empty stomach, I was probably whining to my mother about raspberries and complaining of the boringness of my private tutors. I look back at the child I was and I don't know if I should feel tenderness or resentment.

I got carried away by my thoughts again. My guest had been saying something and I hadn't been listening at all. I tried to tune-in and realized that the subject was Greece. Hardly surprising. If it's not Greece then it's Poland. How does he do it? I'm barely managing to inspire the men of this country to care about our own people and he doesn't even need me to inspire him to care about all the peoples of the world. Anyway, I think France has more than enough problems of her own. Of course, after the Republic is established, it will need ambassadors to the rest of the world. And, hopefully, our dear fan-maker will be one of them. Well-dressed and well-fed and charming and important and without that constant shadow that just barely darkens his smiles. But that will be then. All I have energy to think about now is France and… oh dear, that law essay that still needs to be finished, despite its unimportance in the grand scheme of things.

In the next twenty minutes or so, Feuilly continued making small talk or at least what passes for small talk between two people who know little of each other, other than that they share common political convictions. I should have probably tried talking about something different for a change but, apart from the fact that I was distracted by his constant rather worrisome coughing, I could not for the world of me invent a suitable topic. We hardly ever see each other without the others there and I'm too preoccupied with plans to pay personal attention to anyone. So what could we possibly talk about? His work? Fans? Girls? Girls with fans? What do I know of either?

Although, wait! I remember now that we did talk about that once! That one time when he first joined us.

I had just given a speech to a group of workers. My speeches were pretty bad back then – not keeping to a point but wandering all over the place. On one occasion I had a person ask me if it was really true that he would get a heart sickness because he had eaten from the rotten cabbages grown at Waterloo. We ended up blinking confusedly at each other for quite a while before I finally figured out that he was actually mixing together four separate points I had been trying to make – about Napoleon's broken promises of a republic, about the rotten government, about the people starving on the streets and about the fire that I thought should be in every man's heart. But the poor man had found it hard to keep track and I couldn't really blame him.

After one of those speeches, I was approached by a young man. He seemed remarkably well-kept, regardless of his humble attire. He was impeccably clean. The straw-coloured strands that showed underneath his cap were cut neatly, if not exactly fashionably and there was something in his lively brown eyes that you don't often see in a workman. A certain kind of intelligence that belongs in a lecture hall. I also noticed that he smiled a lot. It wasn't the same carefree smile that could be found on the face of Courfeyrac, whom I already saw a lot at the time, but it was still a very positive expression and I found myself smiling back.

At first we started talking about the speech and it quickly became evident that he had not only been able to keep up with the mad twists and turns my mind had been taking but he was, without a doubt, one of us. Then I noticed the small paint stains on his fingers. Soap had not been able to wash them off completely. I asked if he was an artist. I knew he was a worker as he had been pointed to me by some of my acquaintances in the proletariat but I wanted to flatter him. He laughed out loud and told me that he only painted fans. Then for some reason the conversation stayed on art rather than politics. He proved an interesting interlocutor and he seemed pleased to have someone to discuss certain artists, paintings and symbolism with. I could see why such persons would be scarce around him. We were talking about things that would mean very little to most workers. We both agreed that beauty was nothing when there was no substance behind it and that every painting should tell a story. He admitted he attempted to do that with his fans too, to keep his work from becoming routine. He said he amused himself by imagining what kind of woman would pick a certain fan. When we parted, he walked away with the date and time of the next meeting of Les Amis and I walked away with the feeling that I had just met someone who would become very dear to my heart.

He is to this day. Even if we interact so little.

After he was gone from my apartment, I suddenly wished I had kept him away from the cold for longer and offered something more substantial than tea. Too late, always too late! Why do I always wait until the right time to do something has passed? And who would have guessed that Enjolras, the man who is always delivering speeches, can't come up with the phrase 'Would you like to stay for dinner?' until the person he should have asked is out the door.

I hope he is all right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who have reviewed, I appreciate it more than I can say. Slightly uneventful chapter but we do need to get through it. Things will happen in the next one.

**22****nd**** December**

_Revolutions to be planned – 1 but put on hold on account of Christmas and New Year celebrations_

_Invitations to Christmas and New Year parties declined – 7 (Could have been worse)_

_Invitations to Christmas and New Year parties accepted – 0 (And damned happy about it!)_

_Times I told Courfeyrac that I don't want to go with him on Christmas Eve and meet 'Claudine's lovely cousin Whatshername' – at least 2000 or that's what it feels like_

Just back from a meeting. It looks like I'll be forced to postpone any further plans until all the festivities are over. All everyone is talking about is Christmas and New Year parties and some of them have already left to visit their families. Joly, Bossuet and that girl they're always with are, all three of them, going to celebrate with Joly's parents. And no one seems to find it even a bit awkward. Not even the parents, apparently.

Joly is some character indeed. Save for his 'miasmas' that he's constantly trying to avoid, he seems to think that the world in general is a safe and friendly place and you should think the best of everybody and everybody will think the best of you. And that seems to work for him on most occasions. He could walk into the Musain tomorrow dressed in women's undergarments and sit in Grantaire's lap and I would still not think ill of him because… Well, it's Marcel Joly! Jollly. He can't possibly do anything that isn't innocent and well-meant. And L'Aigle is even more like that, if possible. Because if he were to walk into the Musain dressed in women's undergarments, it would most probably be because someone with a strange sense of humour stole his clothes on the way. And if you found him in anyone's lap, it would be because he stumbled and fell there. And the explanation would not even sound implausible from his mouth. The most improbable sorts of misfortunes always happen to Bernard L'Aigle. Honestly, that's not just lack of luck, that's _inventive_ unluckiness!

Anyway, they're gone and Combeferre is leaving tonight too. He actually offered me to go with him but I think his poor mother deserves to have him to herself every once in a while. Courfeyrac is planning on going to so many parties that he would have to constantly leave in the middle of one to attend another. Bahorel is going home too, to his parents and his four sisters. I never knew Bahorel had four sisters until yesterday when he mentioned them but, since he has no brothers, that might explain why he feels the need to be boyish enough for four boys.

Jehan is staying. I don't know much about his family but he didn't look exactly devastated that he wasn't going to see them.

And, obviously, Feuilly isn't going anywhere.

Speaking of him… Today he seemed worse, if anything. That coughing worries me. A bit. All right, a lot. Combeferre wanted to examine him but he said he was in a hurry and it would have to wait. And here is the really worrisome part – was it my imagination or did Fabrice actually seem a little scared? I just hope to God it's not something bad…

So that's everyone…

Ah, and I suppose there's also Grantaire but I can easily guess what his plan is – get drunk, send me a Christmas card with completely illogical and incoherent quotations from Greek mythology, philosophy, world literature and his own cynical aphorisms scribbled all over, like he did last year, then get even drunker and pass out. Seriously, that card was something. I can only imagine how much he must have drunk before writing it. I'm sure the others would have found it hilarious but I fail to see what's funny about someone being positively… decadent. All the time. It's not like Courfeyrac having too much wine every once in a while and talking nonsense. Even I have laughed at that. But Grantaire makes me feel like he breathes his own personal cloud of unhealthy air.

Wonderful. I'm one step away from starting to hide from Joly's miasmas too. And I've wasted too much paper on the winesack anyway.

As for my plans, my parents are abroad so I won't be going to see them. I can't help but feel slightly relieved. Normally I wouldn't think that but I'm having trouble getting along with father lately for some reason. And mother does nothing but fuss over me, as if I am an eight-year-old girl with poor health. I've grown a bit tired of it.

I wish Combeferre didn't have to go, though. He would be willing to spend Christmas just talking, rather than going along with what most people mistake for a party – getting drunk and making as much noise as possible. That's why I've declined all social-event invitations, even if I had to suffer through Courfeyrac's accusations that I have swallowed a stick. If I go to one of those insanely loud and obnoxious gatherings, I know I'll just end up going home tired and irritated.

Hm… I suppose I could suggest to Prouvaire or Feuilly to celebrate (read _discuss politics and literature_) together but I'm sure they have other plans. Besides, I couldn't even have a proper half-hour chat with Feully last time so how am I supposed to act to him during a three-man party that won't include a crowd of people gulping wine and shouting Vive la Republique?

Jehan won't mind me though. He's used to me and he'll find a way to amuse himself if I can't keep my end of the conversation. Maybe if he's there to facilitate things… Do Jehan and Fabrice get along? Silly question – everyone gets along with Jehan. But do they actually _know_ each other well?

Anyway, it's probably a bad idea. At some point in the evening I'll want to write a speech or something and will end up either ignoring them or wishing they weren't there. And doesn't Jehan have a mistress? He'll probably celebrate with her…

Why am I even writing this? This diary was supposed to be dedicated to the dealings of our organization, not idle gossip about its members!

I'm going to bed…


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Just a question for Sythar and anyone who has noticed this: what is with les Miserables fan fiction and respiratory problems? Is it Hugo himself with Fantine who started the trend? Because there's AmZ's Isaac's TB, Alec(the first)'s pleurisy, Perceval's broken ribs and now this. There are logical reasons in each case but it's still strange…

**23****rd**** December **

_Unknown workers showing up at apartment – 1_

_Troublesome news received – 1_

_Bowls of chicken soup consumed out of solidarity even though I wasn't hungry – 1_

_Unsolvable dilemmas – 1_

_Inapplicable plans to solve said dilemma – 1_

_Persons who might be able to apply said plan to solve said dilemma but whom I would really rather not get involved because they might make a mess of things instead – 1_

I cannot believe what I am doing. It's almost noon and I'm still in my night clothes, curled up in a corner of the couch with an adventure novel in my lap.

The morning started a lot more productively. Got up with the intention of looking over the notes I had scribbled during Pointless July Revolution about the organization of the National Guard and some strategically unsound moves on part of the rebel forces. But while I was making myself tea, I suddenly realized… There's no point! There will be no one to tell my conclusions to for at least two more weeks and, frankly, most of them still don't seem too keen on listening. It's like they come to the meetings out of habit. Or because the back room has some sentimental value to them. In that 'remember when we used to come here and plan revolutions?' kind of way. It makes me want to tear my hair from my scalp.

It's like with that book in my lap. I know I am really far too old to be reading _Télémaque _again, (not to mention that I have lately started to cringe at anything connected to Greek mythology) but I still pick it up occasionally. It's a token of a care-free and ignorant childhood and I don't want to let it go completely but at the same time, it's not too important in my present life. Is that what our meetings have become? Tokens of all the 'fun' we had when we were 'playing rebels'?

Naturally, there's no question of me giving up on the Cause. If things don't get better, I'll just have to take Jehan and Fabrice (hopefully they have no intention of giving up either) and look for new supporters and reform Les Amis. But, God, I can't believe Combeferre may not be there! And I have yet to go on a recruiting mission. I admit I have been postponing it. For the first time I am not sure I have the courage to stand in front of a crowd and face a sea of skepticism.

My head hurts when I start thinking like that. That's why I picked up the book. But even that seems to bring about unpleasant thoughts today. Reading an adventure novel reminds me of what my father said last time I saw him. That I got too engrossed in those stories as a boy and that's why I'm trying to pretend I'm some kind of hero now. Words cannot express exactly how furious I was at that.

And reading about classical times reminds me of Grantaire's constant mocking (although he's been a little quieter lately).

And reading about Greece reminds me of Feuilly and the fact that Combeferre never did manage to take a good look at him and that I'm worried.

And with all this, I'm just sitting and sulking. At least everyone is either gone or busy so there is little chance of anyone showing up and seeing me in this st-

Merde. Someone's at the door. Better get dressed really quickly.

…

Dear Lord. I am right now at Feuilly's place – a tiny but, of course, very clean room in a house that is on the very edge of what could pass for Paris' respectable part.

The person at the door turned out to be a workman I had never seen before. Apparently, Feuilly practically collapsed at work today. Two of his co-workers were kind enough to take him home and pester him to tell them how to get into contact with someone who would at least check on him. He finally gave them my name which would have been flattering if he hadn't spent half of the time I've been here profusely apologizing for it.

The doctor has just gone and, thank God and all saints, it's not what I feared. The first thing that sprang to my mind was consumption and God only knows what I would have done faced with something I could do _nothing_ about. Well, it's not that. But it's still a very severe cold, possibly bronchitis or pneumonia. Worrisome enough but I'm not allowed to show that since I can tell Fabrice himself is scared enough without me adding to the situation. Although somehow I can't imagine Feuilly being so afraid for his life. Not after the stunts I saw him pull in July. And especially not after he has been told by a medical professional that he will likely recover unless something goes _really_ wrong. (Let's not think about that last part.) So I wonder what else could be bothering him. He's not saying anything, of course. In fact, he's acting positively chipper in a way that makes me think he'll crack in the middle of a sentence and burst into tears. Lord help me if that happens. I really wish Combeferre was here. This is completely out of my depth. Just now, while the doctor was here, I had to keep myself in check so I wouldn't instinctively step into my Leader role and start shouting orders like 'You – fix this man! You – stop coughing and get well immediately!'

Yes, and I'll just go and build a barricade, shall I? That will help a lot in this case.

God, did I just sound like Grantaire?

And I can't get rid of the irrational feeling that the doctor may not have been thorough enough. After all, it's not _his_ friend coughing his lungs out.

At least Jehan arrived twenty minutes ago. I sent some boy to bring him as soon as I got here. (Strange, there were four or five children hanging around on the stairs.) He doesn't know what to do any better than I do but at least there's two of us here now. He's gone to find the landlady and see if he can convince her to make some soup. It's a pity raspberries are not in season. I always asked my mother for raspberries when I felt ill as a child.

Fabrice is asleep which is good, both because he needs rest and because when he is not sleeping he's going on about how he's going to pay us back the money we've spent on cabs and the doctor and whatever else. As if I would allow him! The last thing I need is to know that the bloody three francs he earns a day are going to pay some ridiculous debt he thinks he owes me!

Jehan is back with what should be chicken soup. Let's hope it contains actual chicken or at least something more nutritional than water and salt.

…

When I moved to stand up and wake Feuilly for dinner, Jehan grabbed my arm gently.

"Wait, before you wake him…" He threw a quick glance at the bed and sat opposite me, leaning forward and whispering. "Something's troubling him. You can see it, can't you?"

I nodded. Obviously, I had been thinking the same.

"Will you talk to him? He won't say anything to me. He doesn't think much of me."

My eyebrows flew up.

"Pardon? Prouvaire, I'm sure you are wrong. I have never met a person who doesn't like you."

"Oh, Feuilly likes me well enough, I believe. I just suspect that he doesn't think I live in the real world, that's all. And, you know, he's right." Jehan chuckled a bit. "I know you and I are probably the two people in Paris most prone to staring off into space grasping at abstractions but out of the two of us I think you would qualify as more down-to-Earth."

I commanded the muscles of my face to retain a somewhat dignified expression and not let my eyebrows travel all the way up my forehead and into my hair. I wasn't aware that I stared off into space on regular basis. Well… at least not enough for people to notice. But then again, I had never been described as 'down-to-Earth' either.

"Besides," Jehan continued, "you're his leader. He'll trust you with anything."

I wasn't entirely sure about that but I gave a curt leader-ly nod and went to the bed, giving the man sleeping on it a gentle shake.

"Feuilly, we have some dinner served. Although 'served' is, perhaps, a bit of an overstatement…"

Fabrice opened his eyes, blinked at me for a moment, then glanced at Jehan who was pouring soup into bowls.

"Oh, no…" He slammed his face into the pillow with a groan. "What are you two still doing here?"

This was the moment for Courfeyrac or Bahorel or even Grantaire to say something ridiculous like 'What does it look like we're doing? We're fishing!'. But, of course, none of them were here so Jehan and I just exchanged looks across the room. That's one of the reasons I hate it when someone's missing from a meeting or similar. The whole conversation seems to stumble on the empty chairs.

"I didn't mean that I don't like having you here!" Feuilly amended quickly. "But, really, you have done more than enough. And I have to go back to work and finish what's left from this morning anyway…"

Of course, at this exact moment, his own lungs decided to point out the ridiculousness of what he was saying and he started coughing so hard that I was surprised he didn't spit at least a few vital organs on the floor. I turned back to him, drawing to my full leader-ly height (that I normally only use for large crowds of prospective republicans) and looked down at him sternly.

"First, you will stay in this bed until further notice. Second, you will stop mentioning debts and paying back. Consider whatever Jehan and I have spent or will spend on your health an investment into the army of the Republic. Third, you will tell me right now why you are so upset."

"I'm not upset!"

"Mon Ami, I don't mean this in any disrespectful or patronizing way, but that sounded just a little hysterical," Jehan pointed out from behind me.

Feuilly rubbed his forehead with a fist and gave a long sigh, apparently getting a grip on himself. When he spoke next, he sounded more composed.

"You know, I've never been sick a day in my life. Not seriously, anyway. A bit of a runny nose here and there. I've always been healthy enough to work. As long as I'm at work, it will be fine. But I cannot afford to miss out. I plan to take care of myself as much as possible, really, I do. But do you know how many people are looking for jobs? Of course you do! We talk about that all the time at meetings! The boss is not going to wait for me to get better. He can't afford it either. We get more orders over Christmas because of all the balls. So he could replace me in minutes. He might have already replaced me. What if I can't find anything else? So this is not me being stubborn, it's just… If you think I wouldn't rather stay in bed and eat soup… If you think…"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence, rubbed his forehead again, took a few calming breaths and went straight into another coughing fit. Jehan and I stared at each other helplessly.

"Alright… Alright…" I said slowly, sitting on the bed next to him and trying to think. "What if we find someone who will be willing to take your place for a period of time and then relinquish it back to you?"

Feuilly shook his head.

"No one in their right mind would give up a job."

"They would, if they weren't looking for a job in the first place," I pointed out.

"No one who doesn't need a job would take one for three francs a week."

"Well, not for their own benefit. We need someone who won't mind doing us a favor and is at least qualified enough not to get fired."

Unfortunately, I didn't really know any painters at all, let alone ones that would do this.

"Enjolras," Jehan began cautiously, "you are not going to love this but the only person I can think of… for whom I have reason to believe he can paint at least to some extent… and has a chance of agreeing… is Nicolas."

I frowned in confusion.

"Who?"

Jehan chuckled nervously.

"Grantaire."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **Phew, this one took a while! It was supposed to be an entry for the 24th but too many things are happening to stuff them all into one chapter. Enjoy!

**2****3****rd****-24****th**** December, midnight**

_Amis involved in helping Feuilly – 3 (much better than today at noon)_

_Annoying drunkards – 1 (but annoying and drunk enough for a whole army)_

_Plans that I know won't work on account of annoying drunkard – 1_

_Plans that might work – undetermined number_

_Hours of sleep I am likely to get tonight - 0_

I feel like it's been at least a whole day since Jehan's rather surprising suggestion this afternoon.

"Grantaire paints?" Fabrice asked curiously, confirming that I hadn't misheard.

"Well…" Prouvaire hesitated. "It's not so much that he paints _at present_, it's more that I believe he knows how to. It's a bit complicated. You know that he attended the university at one point. I have no idea what it was exactly that he was supposed to be studying but he went to quite an impressive array of completely unrelated classes. Apparently, one of the things he was reasonably fond of was biology. That, however, required some drawing skills and Grantaire wasn't very experienced at drawing. So he decided to go to an art class and ended up liking it so he attended that too for a while…"

One little and very strange thought fluttered through my mind a few times during this explanation – Jehan knows details about Grantaire's life? And his Christian name? Is it possible that they are close friends and I haven't noticed? But no, out of all of the Amis, Jehan is the one to speak to the drunkard least frequently. It's like they're on completely different planes of existence.

"How do you know all this?" I asked, rather than continuing to try figuring it out on my own.

Prouvaire blushed, as he often does, simply at being addressed. (At the beginning of our acquaintance I used to wonder all the time what exactly I had said to embarrass him.)

"Oh, I just asked him a few questions one evening before the meeting. You see, I was early and he was there and I was just sitting across the room with some paper, trying to finish a poem but it wasn't working and then I suddenly got this inspiration for something different and… Oh, it doesn't matter. But I asked and he answered."

"And his first name?"

His face lit up.

"Oh, I make it a point to know people's first names! It makes it so much easier to love them! Because then you can see them as little boys and imagine their mother calling them by that name to come for dinner or…"

Grantaire as a little boy? My brain tried to process that image and choked on it. Perhaps I lack imagination but, honestly, the man is in his late twenties (I think), looks in his late thirties from all that alcohol and often speaks as if he's a hundred and one and bored with the world. How am I supposed to see him as a child?

But, regarding everyone else, I suppose Jehan's theory works. I myself often use their given names in my head and it's not too hard to call them 'boys' instead of 'men'.

My mind was dragged from the detour it had taken when Fabrice started coughing again and Jehan suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, did I upset you?"

The fan-maker gave him a confused look over the hand he was covering his own mouth with.

"Huh?"

"I shouldn't have spoken of mothers so much…" the poet mumbled, blushing dark pink and looking close to tears.

Feuilly, in contrast, burst out laughing.

"Prouvaire, for God's sake! I am not quite so easily upset!"

I could tell he only barely stopped himself before adding 'unlike you'. Upon seeing that his words hadn't been convincing enough, he stood and drew the still slightly tearful Jehan in for an embrace. He rolled his eyes at me good-naturedly over our younger friend's shoulder.

"There, now, if it makes you feel better, you can call me by my given name to compensate for the times my mother didn't."

"Ah, if you don't object…"

"I'll be thrilled."

I could see Jehan was right – Fabrice didn't take him very seriously but he was, no doubt, as fond of him as the rest of us.

A few minutes later we were seated at the rickety table, all three of us forcing soup down our throats, mostly to keep the other two company.

"And you suggest we ask Grantaire of all people to do this?" I asked, rather unconvinced. "Even if he does have the skills, what makes you think he will say yes?"

Jehan shrugged.

"He loves us. He will never say no to any of us, especially to you."

I gave him a skeptical look.

"'_He loves us'?_ What gave you that idea?"

"Oh, I may seem without a clue about a lot of things but _love_ I _do_ recognize."

This was said so matter-of-factly that I found I had no reply.

"Whether he will manage to complete the task is a different matter though," Jehan continued thoughtfully.

I turned to Feuilly.

"Your choice. I'll be honest; I don't see this working out with Grantaire playing the central part. If anything, he'll show-up drunk and make things worse. But I don't have a better suggestion at the moment. I suppose it's possible that I'm wrong."

Feuilly considered the matter for a second and shrugged.

"We won't know unless we try, will we?"

At this point there was a knock on the door. I stood up to answer and was quite surprised to discover a tall, lanky figure, fashionably dressed and leaning charmingly on the doorframe.

"Courfeyrac?"

"Good afternoon, Enjolras." He looked past me at Jehan and Fabrice, still sitting at the table and looking mildly surprised to see him. "Good Lord, Feuilly, you do look a little ill. Although you don't seem to be on your deathbed as I was almost led to believe when I was called here."

Feuilly raised an eyebrow at me and Jehan in turn. Jehan shrugged. I racked my brains to figure out how Courfeyrac had miraculously appeared at the door and suddenly remembered that I had indeed asked a different boy to fetch him when I had sent one for Prouvaire. But I hadn't had much hope that he would be at home so I had just forgotten about it and assumed it was up to Jehan and me to deal with the situation. I couldn't say I wasn't glad to see him though.

"So, may I join the party? I'm sorry I'm late but I was out when that boy came looking for me," he chattered as I stepped aside to let him in and he made himself comfortable on the couch. "Luckily, the little messenger turned out to be quite stubborn. He waited for me for hours until he could complete his assignment. I gave him a well-deserved reward, which he, I am glad to say, is currently splitting with his friends outside on the stairs. Say, Feuilly, did you know that you are currently better-guarded than the king? And your bodyguards are determined to stay at their posts until they are quite certain you are not dying."

"Oh, dear! Are you telling me they are still around?"

Feuilly shot out the door. We could hear him convincing someone, presumably the children, that he was perfectly alright and they could all, please, go, really, everything was fine.

"I didn't know they were here because of you," I said when he returned. "Else, I would have told them we had things taken care of."

"They're not all yours, are they, mon ami?" Courfeyrac asked with a devilish grin.

Feuilly rolled his eyes.

"You can sort of say that, in a way. Some of them have parents but the folks are often too busy trying to put bread on the table to do much else. So, the little ones keep me company from time to time. I teach them to read and write. And they don't mind Polish folk tales. I probably gave them a bit of a scare when Blanchon and Renard practically carried me here this morning."

We stared at him. There it is again, Fabrice, I thought. You are making me feel like an idiot. You have probably done more good for these children than our whole organization has managed to do for anyone so far.

"That's… That's absolutely wonderful!" Jehan summed up for us. "I mean, what you've been doing and not that you had to be carried, obviously… Why didn't you tell us? We could have helped. We _are_ les Amis de l'ABC after all – we might as well live up to our cover."

He glanced at me for approval and I nodded. I didn't really fancy teaching street urchins the alphabet while I could be collecting guns instead but, of course, this was horrible of me to think and at this point I could not possibly say no.

"It's a splendid idea. But it will have to wait a little. We have another problem at present."

It took us a few minutes to bring Courfeyrac up to date. He fiddled with his cane thoughtfully while Jehan explained the Grantaire idea. Then he looked at me.

"Well, what are your orders, Commander? I could go and fetch Grand-R if you like."

I shook my head.

"No point bringing him here. We can both go and see him. I have to go home at least for a while. My rent was due today and I forgot to pay the landlady. Prouvaire, Feuilly, will you two be al…" I stopped before I said something mildly offending. They weren't children after all. "I mean, I know you will be alright but do you need me for anything?"

They both shook their heads.

"Don't worry. I'll get us some real dinner on top of the soup," Jehan promised. "And I could stay the night if Fabrice doesn't mind me borrowing his couch…"

Feuilly looked positively horrified.

"You most certainly will not! I mind very much you sleeping on a couch because I happened to catch a bit of a cold. I'd love you to keep me company over dinner but then you are going home! You may all come and see me tomorrow if you very much insist. But, as Courfeyrac reasonably pointed out, I am not on my deathbed."

"Very well then," I said picking up my coat and hat. "We will let you know tomorrow morning how it went with Grantaire."

I couldn't help a small grimace. I wasn't looking forward to putting anything important in Grantaire's hands.

Then Courfeyrac and I were out the door.

It was quite dark before we managed to reach our destination. I had heard that Grantaire's quarters were somewhere close to the Musain but, unsurprisingly, I had never actually bothered to learn the exact address. Courfeyrac took me through a few crooked alleys behind the café and to an insignificant-looking building. Then up a few flights of stairs to the third and last floor and to a plain brown door on the far left end of a corridor. He raised his cane and knocked rather loudly.

"If he's in and he hasn't passed out, he ought to hear."

Sadly, I could not adopt my friend's cheerful attitude at the thought of someone getting drunk enough to lose consciousness. But I refrained from voicing that thought. No one ever seems to take Grantaire's drinking quite as seriously as I do and if I try to raise the topic in front of them, I'm faced with shaking heads and smiles of exasperation, as if I'm talking about a naughty little sibling eating too much candy.

There was some shuffling and the door was opened by a very disheveled and undoubtedly drunk Nicolas Grantaire. (Although I should really refrain from ever thinking of his given name after listening to Jehan's talk of little boys. Otherwise I risk having an image of a drunkenly swaying ten-year-old with bloodshot eyes, stubble and a bottle stuck in my mind forever. And, of course, even his name had to be specifically chosen to mock me. Nicolas. 'Victory of the People'. Hah!)

"Ah! Apollo, Courfeyrac, what a fine surprise," he slurred, focusing on us with some difficulty. "Bit early for a Christmas visit but I don't complain. Do come in, do come in, to Hephaestus' humble abode, my dear friends. Have you brought the Sun with you, Apollo? 'Tis a bit dark in here. Hades is playing dominoes with Dionysius in the corner…"

I followed him and Courfeyrac inside thinking '_shut up, shut up,_ _shut up_!' the whole time. Can't he just speak to me normally for a moment? Or act as if I'm a real person and not one of the delusions that his wine-soaked imagination conjures for his entertainment? I feel positively used within five minutes of being in the same room with him, like a dancer whose sole purpose is to fuel men's fantasies!

Courfeyrac threw me one glance, understood immediately that if I were to open my mouth right now the only thing coming out would be a growl, and resolved to take things into his own hands.

"Now, Grand-R, mon ami, we're here because we need a favor…"

"A favor! A favor to the gods! Shall that be a human sacrifice? Anything for you, my lord and master."

He attempted to kneel before me and ended up toppling over and bursting in a fit of giggles on the floor.

"Grantaire, you are truly an abomination," I said as calmly as I could manage. "Get up."

He stopped laughing and stared up at me with eyes so red and watery that I could hardly see them in the sickly light of the gas lamp. I was not sure I had ever seen him so outrageously inebriated before. Or at least he was normally not awake at this stage.

"But isn't that where an abomination belongs, Apollo?" he asked quietly this time. "At your feet?"

I turned to Courfeyrac.

"This is no use. I don't know what I was thinking. Let's go."

"Ah, Enjolras, he won't be that bad once he's sobered up! Tell you what, I know witnessing people's silliness irritates you. Go home and I will stay and make sure our old friend here is in top shape tomorrow. I'll tell him what he has to do. And if that doesn't work, you have my word that I will find another solution."

I hesitated.

"Come on, Adrien." He gave me a compelling look. "You and Prouvaire have done everything else so far and I feel behind on good deeds."

I glanced at Grantaire.

"We can't leave this in his hands."

"We won't. I'll keep an eye on him. And if he's not up to the task, I may have another idea. Trust me. I believe I can talk my way through this one with Feuilly's boss if it comes to that."

I sighed. I was tired and I really wanted to just leave it to him. I knew I _could_ trust him. Antoine is really a most trust-worthy person unless you are his mistress. And even then, I admit I have not heard of any girl complaining from his treatment of her. So, I suppose, if he is able to charm his way out of quarrels with half of the female population of Paris, it might be possible for him to negotiate something in Fabrice's favor. In any case, I had nothing better to offer.

"Very well then," I said finally. "Goodnight, Courfeyrac."

"Goodnight, Enjolras."

I turned on my heels, trying to ignore Grantaire who was shakily getting off the floor.

"Goodnight, Apollo."

I practically ran outside and almost slammed the door in my desire not to turn and shout at him. It would be useless. He wouldn't hear a thing and he probably wouldn't keep his mouth shut either and I would get even angrier and I hate loosing my temper.

Once I was out of the building, I breathed in deeply. The doubtfully clean air of Paris seemed a lot cleaner in comparison to what I had had to breathe in that bottomless pit of a room. The air in there consisted not of any chemical elements but of mockery and bitterness and disbelief. Pure poison. I sometimes wonder how Grantaire himself stands to live in it.

Is he even really alive?

Maybe he was right. Maybe Hades and Dionysus were really playing dominoes in the corner. Maybe if I go back there, I will see them too. And I have no wish to.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **I'm here, I'm here! It's just extra work and exams and the flu and not enough hours in the day... Those of you who haven't done it yet can check out the silly poll on my profile page and I'm currently uploading crappy images of my amis on deviantart. I have a joined profile with a friend there and our name is imwithyanaandimbored (I know, I know, but it is what it is). After you're done rolling your eyes at me failing as an artist, go and wash your brains with technicolor-werewolf's much better artwork.

**24****th**** December, a little past noon**

_Hours of sleep – 0 but hopefully subject to change_

_Plans to help Feuilly keep his job put into action – 1_

_Annoying drunkards – 0 _

_Increase in love and admiration for Courfeyrac - considerable _

Just as predicted, I spent the whole night awake. I was trying to figure out if there had been a better choice than trusting Grantaire with a mission. Although, to be fair, I had actually trusted _Courfeyrac_ with _not trusting_ Grantaire with a mission. That, I suppose was slightly better. Still, my mind was split at least three ways that night – enough to keep me awake.

First (and I feel horrible admitting this but one has to be honest), a tiny and apparently very childish part of me actually wanted Grantaire to fail. That would be bad, of course, but I would be proven right. I wanted to wave his failure in the faces of everyone who didn't consider his shortcomings serious enough and just rolled their eyes at his antics while I tried to explain that the rotting of the human soul should not be taken so lightly.

A second part of me hated the idea of him not succeeding but knew for a fact that something would go wrong, simply based on common sense and experience.

And then the third part… an inexplicably stubborn one… and probably the same one that wanted most of all to defy everything bad Grantaire had ever said about trust and faith and humans… that little part wanted to believe this would work.

And I almost believed it, until about ten in the morning.

Workers had started working long ago at that point and I wondered if Grantaire currently counted among them. I was about to go insane not knowing what was going on. I didn't want to go to Feuilly's workplace because it would look as if I did not trust Antoine to do as he had promised and take care of things. I knew he would let me know what was going on as soon as possible. I also didn't want to go see the others without any news because pacing neurotically up and down in front of them would not be terribly authoritative. In fact, I was making a conscious effort not to do it in front of myself either.

Then a folded sheet of paper was slipped under my door, presumably by the landlady. It was written in Courfeyrac's writing and it said:

_Slight change of plan__s but don't worry. I'm taking care of things. Tell Feuilly not to fret._

_A.D.C._

Translated from Courfeyracian this meant that Grantaire had either not showed up at all or made a mess of things and Antoine was now trying to fix it. Brilliant.

My anger from the previous night, which had been silenced by the irrational hope that maybe I was wrong and the winesack would really be much more adequate once he had sobered, flared up again. It was hopeless, hopeless, _hopeless_! How do you deal with someone who is _that_ untrustworthy and useless? And this wasn't even about the Republic or the Cause or anything like that. It was our friend, our friend Feuilly who needed help! Jehan had been wrong. Grantaire didn't love us. Grantaire didn't love anything because he was simply too busy mocking the world.

Now, as much as I had faith in Courfeyrac, I had to find out what exactly he was doing. I had to know this would come out right in the end. I could not face the idea of telling Fabrice we had failed him. If we couldn't secure the job of _one_ worker, what were we good for at all?

I was almost tempted to put on the first thing I could get my hands on and rush out the door at a sprint but, of course, that would be both inappropriate and useless. Whatever was happening was happening and there was little chance that I would be able to change it. I managed to get dressed quite calmly and make myself presentable. I left the house in about half an hour.

The fan-making atelier turned out to be quite small, situated on the second floor of an old building not too far from where Fabrice lived. The first floor housed a slightly shabby dress emporium. Even from afar one could see that the upper windows were decorated with (what else?) colourful fans and I caught myself wondering whether my friend had had a hand in the creation of some of them. I hadn't actually seen any of Fabrice's creations and that suddenly struck me as odd.

When I climbed the stairs and reached the atelier, I was greeted by a rather curious sight. I stopped at the entrance. I did not want to spy but I was reluctant to interrupt the scene. There was Courfeyrac, surrounded by a group of giggling girls, most of whom were clearly society ladies. Two were more humbly dressed, though, and they looked like they might actually be working there. Our very own Don Juan seemed to have them quite hypnotized. He was talking animatedly to a middle-aged man with large moustache whom I presumed to be Fabrice's boss. Three other workers were standing a bit to the side, their expressions ranging from amused to skeptical, to mildly irritated.

"… could not refuse the lovely ladies!" Antoine was saying in his flamboyant, merry tenor when I arrived. "So we had our little bet and I promised I would be a workman for at least a week or two. But the question was, what work would I get? You would understand how finding the right thing was quite vexing. Then I learned that you were one man short in here and I simply had to offer my services. I am not completely unqualified. As some of these ladies will testify, I have drawn some quite acceptable sketches of them. Naturally, as a mere student of your craft, I will not require payment. I will be content to simply experience the joy of fan-making. What could be more wonderful than creating beautiful things to decorate the beautiful girls who, in turn, will decorate Paris' beautiful ballrooms?"

The three workers exchanged glances that said quite clearly that they could think of a few things that would be 'more wonderful'. The boss shook his head.

"This may be a game for you, monsieur, but it is a living for us. I do not hire unqualified workers. My business would go down!"

"Oh, but it will be good for your business," one of the girls piped in. Or, possibly, she could be called a woman. She looked no older than the others but she had the air of a woman and she didn't giggle quite as much. "Because, you see, we will be willing to buy every single fan M. Courfeyrac makes, no matter how outrageously ugly it is. We will keep them so we could laugh at them and at him for failing miserably at being a craftsman and losing the bet. Isn't that right, girls?"

There was general laughter and mutters of agreement.

"Camille, _mon cherie_, how wicked you are!" Antoine exclaimed in mock-indignation. "But you get away with it because you are so beautiful."

He blew her a kiss, she rolled her eyes in a rehearsed manner that was designed to look pretty and I almost slapped my forehead at the theatricality of it all.

The boss still looked doubtful until one of the workers, the youngest, who looked about our age, stepped in.

"Mongeau, it is almost Christmas. We might not find any replacement fast enough to fulfill all orders. If we take him and they buy the fans, we would at least not lose much business and, since he will only be working for a couple of weeks, we would be able to take Feuilly back once he's recovered. Feuilly is good. It would be a pity to lose him. In addition, I'm sure M. Courfeyrac could be of _some_ assistance and if he does not require payment, you might actually make profit. And I'm sure fine ladies like these wouldn't go back on their word to buy his stuff."

He smiled at the assembled girls who, predictably, giggled.

"Ah, there you have it!" Courfeyrac exclaimed with a blinding flash of a smile. "This way everyone is happy."

The two grisettes looked like they were the happiest for getting a chance to spend lengthy amounts of time in the same room as Antoine. I held my breath, waiting for the boss' final word on the matter. He chewed on his moustache a bit before jerking his head decisively.

"Fine then, monsieur. You can have your try. But I am warning you, if you want to be a worker, I will treat you as a worker. And I expect no trouble."

He shot a look at his two female employees. Courfeyrac's grin was innocence itself as he shook the man's hand. He suddenly noticed me out of the corner of his eye, grinned even wider and winked as if to say 'see? I told you I had it covered!' I smiled back and tried my best to look suitably ashamed at ever doubting him. I nodded towards the staircase, indicating that I would wait to speak to him outside.

"I won't be a moment, boss. I will just see the ladies out," I heard him call as I descended.

Seeing the ladies out took a little more than a moment.

"Pascaline, Camille, Juliette, Ophelie…"

Courfeyrac kissed a number of hands and delivered a much greater number of thanks and compliments before they were all gone. How had he gathered a bunch of women here so early in the morning and convinced them to promise to buy fans that, let's face it, would probably look awful?

Once he was done with all farewell pleasantries, he returned to me.

"Ah, Enjolras, you old neurotic! I told you you had nothing to worry about, didn't I?"

"I am not normally a neurotic and you know that very well," I countered. "I only become one when certain people are involved. And, obviously, I don't mean you."

And there it was again – the roll of the eyes, the shake of the head… Grantaire's unreliability brushed off as something common that everyone should simply get used to.

"He probably just slept in, you know," Antoine said, as if that was any excuse. "He seemed ready enough to do it when I talked to him last night. He was concerned for Feuilly, I could see that."

"His concern is completely worthless if he does nothing to help."

I put some effort into making the full stop at the end of that sentence sound truly final. I had no desire to latch into another Grantaire debate. Courfeyrac shrugged.

"I have to go back up. There's my career as a fan-maker waiting for me. Ah, you don't object to all of us putting in a little money to support Feuilly in the meantime, do you? I could not have asked for payment – I don't know the first thing about fans, except that I'm usually curious to see what is hidden behind them."

"Of course I don't object! _He_ will object, but he would have objected to someone getting paid and giving him the money just as much. He will have to put up with it. I'll go and tell him that things have been settled now."

"Splendid. And I will be going to get better acquainted with my co-workers."

I nodded and grasped his hand for goodbye.

"Courfeyrac… Thank you. On behalf of Fabrice and on my own behalf. I don't know anyone else who could have pulled off what you just did and I know precious few people who would have even been willing to try."

"Ah, nonsense! It's only a bit of adventure!"

He tipped his hat at me one last time and went back inside. I, in turn, went to Feuilly's to find Jehan already there and both of them waiting for news. Fortunately, I had some good ones to give. Thank God for Courfeyrac.

I left with the insistence that Christmas Eve dinner was on me and the intention of getting at least a few hours of sleep before seeing them again.

And this is exactly what I intend to do now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Apologies, my dears, for the big delay. I assure you, the story is going right ahead, no intention of stopping. But it's a rather busy time with work and exams. I'll do my best to post regularly :)

**25****th**** December**

_Christmas parties attended – 1 (instead of 0 as planned but __am actually glad about this one)_

_Christmas presents bought – 3_

_Christmas presents received – 3_

_Reasons for Grantaire to continue giving me headaches __– unclear_

_Far-too-easily-forgiving fan-makers – 1_

_Distressed poets – 1_

_Objects in my pockets that I don't want to look at – 1_

_Objects in my pockets that I __should__ not want to look at – 1_

Yesterday's dinner started rather pleasantly, especially since Courfeyrac dropped by after work to let us know that everything was going well. I was hugely relieved when he showed up for two major reasons – first, because he confirmed our plan was working and second, because his presence automatically eliminated the possibility of a dull or awkward evening.

Antoine is born to be the heart and soul of any party, which is probably why people are so willing to forgive the fact that he goes to way too many. In the course of the evening he managed to amuse us with tales of his trials as an aspiring fan-maker, discuss his new boss and co-workers with Feuilly and ask Jehan to compose him some verses about fans that he could recite to the two girls in the atelier. At this point Jehan, trying hard to keep a straight face, declared he was appalled at such a simplistic and literal use of poetry. Then all three of them latched into a debate of what exactly it meant for art to be approachable by the masses. Thus, I was spared the torture of trying to come up with things to talk about that were not in the sphere of politics. I was quite content to lean back in my chair, stare out the window and chuckle occasionally at the appropriate parts.

All was well until Fabrice suddenly stopped in the middle of a laugh and frowned.

"Wait, did anyone find out what happened to Grantaire?"

Jehan shrugged.

"I was here with you the whole time."

"I was a bit busy, obviously" Antoine said.

They all looked at me.

"No," I said, trying very hard not to sound defensive. "I haven't been to see him."

And I would much rather not go there again, thank you, I added mentally. Antoine waved his hand.

"Don't worry, I'm sure he's all right. I'll check on him on my way back home tonight just in case."

And suddenly I did feel worried. What if the damned winesack had chosen this particular day to have a _real_ reason to not do something? What if he had had enough of a hangover to stumble and fall and hit his head and what if we had left him to bleed to death all day?

Puh! Not very likely. But still… I _could_ have gone and seen him after I had parted with Courfeyrac that morning, even if only to berate him for letting us down again…

It is one thing to dislike a certain man and quite a different thing to be indirectly responsible for his untimely demise. I weighed the options in my head. But if I suddenly left now, I would give Courfeyrac a very strong reason to call me neurotic. (Honestly, nobody else seems to think that I am!) And, really, it was quite unlikely that anything bad had happened. Grantaire was a grown man and he had somehow survived thus far without anyone constantly watching him.

In the end, I decided to simply finish dinner and let Courfeyrac make the visit on our way back. To my own frustration, I ended up looking at the time every three minutes and fidgeting quite a bit, although no one seemed to notice. I left together with Jehan and Courfeyrac and we parted near the Musain. By the time I was climbing my own stairs, I was imagining all sorts of melodramatic scenarios with Grantaire being on his way to the fan atelier but getting run over by a fiacre or something like that.

Unfortunately… I mean, thankfully, this only lasted until I entered my apartment and saw the card which had been slipped under the door.

The same. Bloody. Insane. Embarrassing. Nonsensical. Christmas card as last year. To be completely honest, when I saw it, I did feel relief for all of five seconds before I started feeling simply peeved. So, the bastard was alive and well and drunk as all hell again. Should have known.

I resolved to stop devoting so much mental energy to thinking about Grantaire and to never again attempt to give him a task. Which did not mean I didn't go to bed angry and with a headache.

I woke up very early and, as I stared at the ceiling, trying to construct a plan for the day, I suddenly realized that I would, in fact, be spending Christmas with three other men that were not Justinien Combeferre and I had no idea whether I should buy them presents or what kind or how expensive. For a moment I thought longingly about solving problems like gun supplies and war strategies before getting up and trying to figure it out while I got dressed.

I decided that anything too expensive was out of the question as it was sure to embarrass Feuilly and neither Courfeyrac nor Prouvaire would care whether I gave them a gold watch or a paper bag. In the end, I bought Fabrice the nicest sketchbook I could find, Jehan a notebook bound in leather and Antoine a new cravat and hoped that this would do the trick.

I arrived at Feuilly's around noon with some lunch. He smiled a little too brightly at me when he opened the door, which immediately made me suspicious and prompted me to look past him into the room. My own smile froze. There, seated at the table was none other than Nicolas Grantaire, worthless drunkard, writer of ridiculous Christmas cards and a very bad friend indeed. How he had the nerve to even show his face to Feuilly was beyond me. He had the very, very small decency to at least look uncomfortable as he grinned at me.

"Hello, fearless leader."

I gathered all of my currently existing composure and managed not to boil over. I made a few steps into the room to allow Feuilly to close the door behind me.

"Grantaire, I assure you, it will be a very good idea for you to not talk to me for a while."

"Yeah, probably…"

Another grin. An 'ooops, I made you angry but, if I wait long enough, you will forget' kind of grin. I won't forget, I thought. You let me down again. All of us. Explain to me, Grantaire, please, I beg of you. Explain your behavior and, if it's a good explanation, I'll take it. Give me an excuse I could believe. Don't let me think that you would so carelessly and apparently without much remorse disregard things like responsibility and duty and friendship. Because if you have shared our wine and our conversations for weeks and weeks and you are _still_ like that… How many more like you are out there? How many men that neither France nor their own friends can count on?

Of course, he just grinned again and got up.

"I was on my way out anyway."

I said nothing and pointedly directed my attention to placing the packages with the food and my rather unimaginative presents on the table while Fabrice said goodbye and closed the door. When we were alone again, he turned back to me and sighed at my expression.

"The devil isn't so black, Enjolras. He came to see how I was and to apologize. Both in words and… in the form of this."

He indicated a leather purse that was also sitting on the table. I raised my eyebrows and picked it up. It was reasonably heavy. I frowned.

"Grantaire. Came here and gave you money."

He shrugged.

"I didn't want to take it at first but he was quite convincing about it. Said that he would really feel awful if I didn't and that he thought he owed it to me so it was no charity. Well, at least that was the general meaning of what he said. His actual speech was accompanied by rolling on the floor and pretending to kiss my feet and contained phrases like 'I am dirt, I am slime' said in the most solemn and over-the-top remorseful tone of voice I have ever heard. It was really quite comical, I couldn't help laughing…"

"Can't you see he doesn't even take what he's done seriously? You should not have forgiven him so easily," I said. "And friendship is not to be bought."

"Of course not," Fabrice agreed. "But the desire to make amends is worth at least some credit."

"Make amends by giving you money?" I shook my head. "Too easy."

Feuilly smiled, sighed and shook his own head.

"Enjolras… It was not easy for _him_. Grantaire isn't rich. This is not a small amount of money here. It's actually a rather large sacrifice on his part. I know what bothers you. It's the practicality of the gesture. You would have preferred something more personal or symbolic. But the truth is that some of us need practicality. Would it have been better if he had knitted me a scarf? He decided money was the most useful thing he could give me right now and, although I admit I am not at all happy to accept it, I can't say he wasn't right. This way I can pay you and Jehan back. So Grantaire has essentially bought me some peace of mind, which, you will agree, is a wondrous and rare gift."

At the mention of payback so many objections tried to rush out of my mouth that they ended up cluttering at the doorway and the only thing that came out was:

"You'll take money from him but not from me?"

Fabrice sighed again.

"Enjolras, please, I know you don't understand but it's hard to explain. And maybe I'm just being silly but even so, please take the purse, split the money with Jehan however you see fit and don't be offended. You know perfectly well I don't mean this as an insult to you."

No, not an insult. Just a reminder that the rich boy will never be one of _them_. Not one of the working class, not one of the poor, not one of those fighting to keep every shred of dignity because they have little else. This hurt even more because although I could prove my genuine desire to help, if that was the issue, my status I could do nothing about. Even if I were to give up my whole allowance and move to live on the street, that would still not make me one of them because it would be a _choice_. A choice they never had the chance to make. And then I would just be a silly boy pretending to be what he's not.

I sighed in defeat and pocketed the purse, knowing full well that I would drop my share in a few beggars' hands as soon as possible or find some other way to get rid of the money. I wanted nothing to do with it.

"I suppose I should be happy he attempted any apology at all," I muttered.

Fabrice smiled at me and sat on the bed looking really tired. I winced secretly. Two days at home had done him some good but not too much. He still coughed a lot in between sentences and I could still not look at his wrists or his waist when he was only in a shirt and vest without wanting to forcefully shove meat into his mouth.

I had just unpacked the food with the intention of, yes, really shoving meat into his mouth, when there was a knock on the door. With Fabrice's permission, I went to open and there was Jehan, looking, from what I could tell, like he had been crying recently. I might have attributed it to something like the snow falling particularly beautifully outside except that he seemed genuinely upset.

"Is anything the matter?" I asked as he stepped in.

"No… Yes… Just… I only came to tell you both that I can't spend tonight with you and Antoine. I'm sorry, I have to leave right away. I'm really very sorry."

"Has anything bad happened? Can we help?" Fabrice asked getting up and coming over with a slight frown creasing his forehead.

"No…" Jehan looked hesitant for a moment. "I got a letter from home. They are quite upset I'm not there. I thought I could skip going this year, especially with you being sick and all…"

"Oh, please, you should not have stayed on my account!"

"No, I didn't really. I had already decided to stay. You just gave me an excuse not to feel guilty. But, um, they want me now and… I wish I could say no. Anyway, here are your presents." He dumped three small packages on he table. "And… I'm afraid I have to be off now."

We barely managed to persuade him to wait long enough to give him our own presents. While Fabrice was busy looking for his, I tried to pass Jehan the whole purse from Grantaire, which he, of course, refused and I could barely convince him to take even half of the money. But he also seemed to think Grantaire deserved forgiveness, even if giving us money was not exactly the most stylish way to ask for it.

"No, I'm telling you, Enjolras. He does care about us. He's just not very good at doing the right things at the right time. You know, it's possible sometimes for people to act as if they don't care but they really do and they are just bad at showing it… It's not that they don't love you, they just have different ideas about what you should be doing and… Adrien, don't be angry at Nicolas because he can't do what you want him to. It's Christmas and no one should be angry and that's why I have to go, although I really wish I didn't…"

He looked on the verge of tears again and I got the feeling that only a small part of this speech really had anything to do with Grantaire.

"Silly man, don't look so upset!" Fabrice berated him, finally turning away from the cupboard with a small package in his hand. "You _should_ be spending Christmas with your family!"

"Yes. I was trying to do just that but, alas." Jehan muttered so quietly that I was sure I was not meant to hear it at all. I don't think he realized I did. Fabrice who was standing a bit farther seemed to miss it entirely. And I suddenly got the urge to hug and kiss our little poet. "I'll see you again in a few days," he promised with an attempt at a smile as he pocketed his gifts without opening them. "I will rob you of the satisfaction of seeing my reaction. I want to save them for later today. Do get better, Fabrice! I shall be devastated to hear any more coughing from you when I'm back."

"I'll try," Feuilly answered with a grin and saw him off at the door.

We went back to setting the table, moving the presents aside for when Courfeyrac arrived. And then we noticed Jehan had dropped something on the floor. A letter. It looked as if it had been crumbled into a ball and then smoothed over again. Fabrice picked it up and handed it to me.

"You take it. You'll probably see him first when he gets back."

Naturally, neither of us had any intention of reading it but I would be lying if I said I wasn't tempted. It would be a clue to what was going on with Jehan and I really wanted to know that. But private is private. I put it in my coat pocket and forgot about it for the moment. Especially after Courfeyrac arrived shortly after, being let out early from work for Christmas, and made sure we had a really merry celebration.

But now I'm back home and it's so late that it's early and I can't sleep.

What _is_ going on with Jehan? Or am I being neurotic again?


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: _Merry Christmas!_ **Yes, I know. I'm really late. *sigh* I'm on it, I promise. You should get at least one more chapter before New Year. Sorry for shortness but this chapter is as long as it should be.

**28****th**** December**

_Number of…_

**To hell with this.**

It started as a very pleasant day. I knew Combeferre had been due to come back the previous evening and as it neared noon I was on my way to his lodgings in a singularly cheerful mood. Fabrice was looking much better and I had managed to convince myself that Jehan's little episode was simply something brought on by his poetic nature and it was probably not worth worrying about. And even if it was, Justinien was here now and he knew how to worry about friends better than I did.

In such a positive state of mind I arrived at the place where our dear doctor-to-be rented a miniature room on the first floor of a boarding house. His window looked upon a small backyard with a low fence around it. Passing the fence and glancing at the window on my way to the main entrance, I paused. I was seized by the urge to do something to acknowledge my own good spirits. I had had a bit of a taxing Christmas after all, I could allow myself the liberty of being silly for a moment, couldn't I?

Combeferre and I have this little joke of sorts. It began when we were first assembling Les Amis. A lot of emphasis was placed on the need for secrecy and how that may be achieved. Combeferre said something funny about codenames and passwords and, as we were excited and in good humor at the time, we somehow ended up acting an overblown mockery of a secret organization. We have since acquired the habit of sometimes getting in character when we are alone and feeling particularly at ease. I would probably blush as bad as Jehan if someone apart from my second-in-command saw me doing this but Combeferre normally projects such a serious, pillar-of-society image himself that I always think that if he can make a fool of himself this way, I am allowed too, as long as none of our brave comrades finds out.

I threw a glance around to make sure no one was observing and jumped over the fence. I whistled twice, once long and once short, and waited.

The first floor window opened almost immediately to reveal one Justinien Combeferre who was trying hard not grin as he frowned suspiciously at me.

"Who disturbs this very royalist and law-abiding home?" he hissed in stage-whisper.

"The dog who will catch the fat duck before it flies away!" I called back in what was, hopefully, a very conspiracy-appropriate tone of voice.

"And how will the hunters pay you for your service?"

"With bones and raw meat."

"Come in and have some then."

"So I shall!"

Feeling like an idiot and not caring, to Justinien's amusement, I climbed in directly through the window.

Once inside, I took one of the two chairs that had barely been fitted into the room between the bed and the large desk.

That desk was a curious thing. It comprised a sea of medical papers pooling around many and various islands of Justinien's other interests. Some islands were made of poetry, some were made of philosophy or art and some consisted of interesting pebbles dotting the surface.

Speaking of art, here was another person that could have probably taken Feuilly's place. My eyes flew over the scattered sketches. A moth. I human skeleton. A flower. Is everyone accomplished at drawing but me? Although, of course, I have yet to see if Grantaire can really draw or paint. I can't even begin to imagine what he could have been like in college. Natural sciences. Who would have thought? It was Justinien's area, among other things. It somehow seemed unfair for Grantaire to trespass on it.

"Adrian?" someone called. "Wandered into the beautiful future again?"

I turned, startled, only to be faced with my friend's fond and slightly teasing smile. He was standing at the door with two cups of tea. I smiled back.

"Not quite. I was admiring your sketches."

He brushed some medical journals away and sat the cups on the cleared space on the desk.

"Since when is your mind occupied with such mundane things as sketches? Come now, rather tell me how your Christmas went. I hope you didn't spend it all reading about Robespierre."

"Not at all. And, indeed, I have quite a story to tell. In a moment. First, how was yours?"

"Oh… Very pleasant but not eventful. I did a lot of thinking." For some reason the way he said that bothered me but I brushed it away. He settled on the chair opposite me, leaned with one elbow on the desk and made an encouraging gesture. "We can talk about my boring contemplations later. I am far more interested in your story."

I gave him a brief account of everything that had happened since he had left. I am not as prone to decorating stories with flowery detail as Courfeyrac but Combeferre would hardly expect me to, and he seemed interested enough in the facts. When I was done he shook his head.

"I should have insisted on examining Feuilly. I will go see him this very afternoon to try and make up for it."

"You offered to look at him. It wasn't your fault the silly man refused."

"True. But I would very much like to see him all the same."

"And so you shall. But not before you tell me what you were thinking about so much."

He was silent for a moment, drinking his tea and briefly glancing up at me the way a man might glance at the sky outside to determine if he should take an umbrella. It made me uneasy. Justinien is very rarely mindful of what he says to me. We are close enough, or at least I thought us so, to take no offence in each other's opinions.

"Enjolras…" he said finally, "I think I need a rest."

Suddenly there was a tiny knot in my stomach.

"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to sound neutral.

"Les Amis… The revolution… We saw a lot of people die this summer. Good people. Some of them good friends."

"They died for the good of their country."

"Maybe. But they still died when they could have lived. They could have grown and learned and become instruments of human progress and civilization."

"They _did_ become instruments of progress, Combeferre!"

He gave me that dreadfully calm, slightly sad look of his.

"Have we really progressed?"

And I couldn't say anything. I know this is not our tomorrow. The real one is still somewhere out there. I am myself enraged by the lack of positive change but for me this only serves to fuel the fire. But Justinien is not a creature prone to rage. To him, this situation means a different thing. I value human life greatly but it has never been as precious to me as principles and ideas for what is life without them? Combeferre though… For him, a man without a cause is just as important as the first among our nation's great leaders. And so he now wants to put his humanism above his patriotism. If it was anyone else, I would have argued. I would have given all the reasons why a revolution was necessary, pointed out that the people needed us… But I couldn't. Not to him. He _knew_ all these things and he had decided it wasn't reason enough. What could I do?

"You don't believe anymore?" I asked quietly.

He looked back at me calmly, honestly, brown eyes full of gentleness and sadness and apology.

"I don't know. I need time to find out."

"Will you still come to the meetings?"

"What purpose would it serve? You need enthusiasts, minds full of fire and lacking in doubt. What good would a man do who is trying to sort his own beliefs?"

"You don't know if you will be back."

"If I'm back, I want to be sure, Adrien. This is not something that can be done without full devotion."

My motivation to question his decision was gone. It had barely been there to start with. I nodded and drank my tea and accepted the fact that I had lost him.

Merde.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **I really have no excuses so you will have to simply forgive me the absence and hopefully read on :). Hopefully, the length of this chapter compensates somewhat and we learn a bit about Jehan.

**30th December**

_Lyrical contemplations – 1 (noteworthy) _

_Distressed poets – 1_

_Distressing letters – 1_

_Distressing discoveries made about said poets prompted by the reading of said letters – at least 2_

_Revolutions to be planned – 1 but might be planning it almost on my own_

I don't know what made me go out of my way to pass by Jehan's lodgings. There was nothing to suggest he would be back. Yet, when I reached his street and looked up to his mansard, the window was not only lit but open, in spite of the cold, and there was a faint sound of a piano playing. I strained to listen. I didn't know Jehan had a piano as I had never actually come up to his room. I only knew the address and the particular window because I had walked him home a couple of times after our visits to Feuilly.

The piano player seemed to be trying to remember a particular tune. The melody would start confidently but then go out of rhythm, pick up again, the wrong key would be hit, there would be a pause and then everything repeated.

No one stopped me when I entered the building and climbed all the way to the top of the stairs. The musician seemed to have remembered the rest of the tune now because my ascent was accompanied by a complete version of it and just as I reached the final step, Jehan's voice joined in harmony with the piano. Not wanting to interrupt, I merely stepped closer to the door to be able to hear. He sang with his usual exuberance and clarity but with a voice much softer and tenderer than what I was used to hearing when he recited revolutionary poetry. It almost bordered on being slightly feminine in its gentleness.

Naturally, I didn't memorize the whole song but a few verses stuck in my mind. It began so:

"_**Long ago, long ago **_

_**the summer never ended **_

_**but no one ever listened **_

_**to the birds when they would sing**_

_**and angels tried to teach us love**_

_**but we could never understand it. **_

_**And that's why God created winter**_

_**So we would learn to love the spring."**_

Then there was something about the 'seed of love' and 'a flower cracking a boulder' and then the last verse ended like this:

"…_**And it's a blessing in disguise**_

_**To come to know that feeling**_

_**That comes from hope that's been reborn**_

_**Or from an **__**wound that's healing."**_

I'd never heard the song before. I wondered if he had learned it somewhere or if it was one of his poems. But I hadn't heard of him ever composing and I couldn't think why he would not mention it if he did. It did sound a little like his style but… not completely. Maybe something that had inspired him? It certainly had enough symbolism in it. I'm not normally moved by poetry about flowers and trees but there were themes here that I found somewhat stirring.

If we took winter to be a metaphor for the current state of our country… No, that would not do. The song suggested that winter was necessary and with the necessity of this kind of winter I could never agree.

Then if we take it instead to be a metaphor for the recent cooling of my friends' enthusiasm – which has turned to frost in Combeferre's case, at least compared to his usual state of mind – then we might be able to conclude that the 'sleeping seed of love' (love for their country, of course) is merely lying dormant and is maybe going to awaken with the spring and give rise to the flower that will crack the boulder of the tyrannical government…

I do realize it's somewhat unlikely the author meant exactly that but one can hope. And, in any case, I am constantly told art is open to interpretation. As for the blessing of a healing wound, I am willing to agree, except for the fact that – if we once again take it metaphorically – the wound in our organization doesn't seem to be healing but is rather getting worse. We lost Combeferre. _Combeferre!_ Will any of the others be willing to stay, with him gone?

…am _I_?

What nonsense! Of course I am! This was never about Combeferre. Still…

I waited for the last note to fade and knocked. There was a startled scraping sound, caused, I imagined, by the small chair in front of the piano when its occupant turned sharply at the unexpected rapping. Then a pause, footsteps, and finally Jehan opened the door. He was dressed in something that I could not even find a term for. It had most probably come from the East, was decorated in cherry blossoms and I was sure even _he_ would not wear it in public. Under all the bright colours he looked a little pale and I could not figure out if it was the kind of paleness poets merely found fashionable these days or something I should be worried about. His smile, however, was undoubtedly genuine when he saw me and I felt a little touched by how big it was.

"Enjolras! How did you know to come by? No one knows I'm back yet. Do come in. I'm sorry, I haven't tidied up…"

I entered the apartment and immediately thought that I could not possibly have been able to make the difference between it being tidy or not. There were so many… things. Paintings in different styles. Books. Articles of clothing. In addition to that, the whole place seemed caught somewhere on a crossroad between 18th century France and a fairytale. Everything save for some of the books was terribly outdated. The space wasn't actually small but it was so cluttered that it could never pass for large by looking at it. The air smelled strange – not bad, just unusual. Perhaps it was some foreign herb.

Among other things, an old-looking foil was stuck in the wall. It had a few colourful strange-looking necklaces and a rosary hanging on it.

Heavens. A foil. For fencing. Used as a hanger. This was our dear Jehan – more extravagant than extravagance itself. But then again, Jehan didn't fence – he had told me so himself – so what else would he use a foil for if he already happened to have one? I'm sure it made sense to _him_.

It struck me that with the kind of money he was entitled to, he could definitely afford something less humble than this little mansard. But he apparently found it more poetic here. Not that I would encourage indulgence to start with, so his choice was fine by me.

Jehan dug out a chair from under some books and offered it to me along with a glass of wine. I was almost surprised by the wine – I had nearly expected to be presented with some unknown exotic drink.

I sipped it nonetheless as I answered his initial greetings and I assured him that my coming was a pure coincidence, which he seemed to find delightful. I then congratulated him on his little concert.

"Oh..." He blushed. "You heard that? Oh, dear, I must have kept you at the door. I'm afraid I didn't hear you knocking until I was done."

"I didn't knock until you were done. I didn't want to interrupt and I cannot complain of the entertainment. If you would be so kind as to inform me, what was it that I heard?"

"Just a song…"

"Not yours, is it?"

"No… My mother's."

That was something of a surprise.

"I didn't know your mother wrote music and lyrics."

"You wouldn't. Not many people have heard them. And she rarely does it anymore. She wrote that for me one day in winter about eight years ago. It was snowing very heavily and we were watching through the window. She said the snowflakes were waltzing and I said they should have a song to waltz to. And she asked what would the song be about and I said they would be singing about why there is winter. Then she sat at the piano and wrote this. She taught me to play it a little later and my father and she even danced to it once… It was long ago," he finished, unintentionally echoing the words of the song.

He was teary-eyed again and _again_ I didn't know if something was wrong or if it was just his emotionality.

"Did you have a good Christmas?" I asked, deciding not to prod.

"Yes… Yes." There was a small pause; then he continued fervently. "Thank you so much for the presents! You and Courfeyrac and Feuilly! You have no idea… It's really good to see you again. Tell me how you and the others celebrated."

I smiled.

"Thank you for _your_ presents as well, on account of everyone, although I'm sure they'll thank you themselves when they see you. We were truly wonderfully happy with them. But there is really not much to tell about our Christmas. It was rather pleasant but we mostly talked and nothing of consequence really happened."

"Oh, please!" he implored, his pale blue eyes fixing on me.

I blinked, caught a little off-guard by his insistence.

"Very well then… The children Feuilly teaches came for a few minutes and, let me think, recited the alphabet, I believe. And sang something and got candy for their efforts. And Courfeyrac insisted on dancing with the girls, at which they were delighted as girls usually are when they dance with Courfeyrac. Then they went home and we sat down to dinner. The looks and character of one of Feuilly's female co-workers was discussed at one point, you will forgive me if I don't remember too much about that. Then the conversation went back to the children and how each of them was spending Christmas. That topic threatened to become gloomy but ended on an optimistic note because apparently someone's parents had enough heart to take someone else in – an orphan – for the holidays and even spared enough for a present which, we all agreed, was testament that there was still some good in the human race and, indeed, in France. I forget the names of the people involved in that story so if you want more details, you will have to ask Feuilly. After that we conversed on some more social topics at which point Courfeyrac complained we were trying to turn the evening into a meeting and made us play some sort of word game. That turned out rather amusing to the point where the two of them could not stop laughing enough to even attempt to explain the word. That continued for a while and what was said during and after it I really don't remember. There. Was this account satisfactory?"

"Sounds like you had a wonderful time…"

"Yes, I believe we rather…"

I stopped in the middle of the sentence because I noticed he wasn't looking at me and he was secretly wiping his eyes. I hesitated.

"Prouv-" No, that didn't seem right at present. "Jehan, what is the matter?" I asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Every time I see you lately you seem upset, I can hardly attribute it all to simply being sensitive."

He cleared his throat and attempted a laugh.

"Oh, it's nothing, pay no attention to me! It's a silly, silly thing that I should be able to cope with."

"I have no doubt in your coping abilities; I am merely concerned as a friend. Oh, and I have something that belongs to you!"

Thinking of the last time I had seen him upset had made me remember the letter. It was still in my pocket, untouched since the day I had put it there. I took it out now and handed it to him. For a moment, something like terror crossed Jehan's features but then it was gone.

"Did you read it?" he asked quite calmly.

"I would never read your private correspondence!"

I must have sounded more offended than I felt because he immediately flushed and shook his head quickly.

"No, no, no, I didn't mean… Enjolras, forgive me, it was silly of me to suppose such a thing. I didn't think you would open it out of curiosity, I just thought maybe you and Fabrice might have been more concerned than necessary after that scene I made last time. I am honestly sorry for that, I hope it didn't spoil your evening. But in any case the letter holds no secrets. You can read it."

"I admit I was very concerned. But I won't read it unless you wish me to."

"Read it. I am suitably ashamed of my own actions which have been the reason for its writing but I should not be ashamed of anything else you may learn from it. It's a terrible thing to be ashamed of such things."

I could not imagine what he meant but, with that encouragement, I took the letter from him and unfolded it.

_Son,_

_I am appalled at you recent behavior! To not visit your own family over Christmas is an offence in itself but to commit such an offence when your mother is ill is simply unforgivable. You know very well such behavior may cause her condition to worsen. If she does not directly ask for your attention, that does not mean you are excused from paying it to her or allowed to disrespect me by neglecting to be here. Perhaps you think a sick mother can be disregarded in favor of your – I am sure very vivid and quite degrading – social life in your circle of self-proclaimed artists. I shudder to think that if I should die before my wife, you will have her thrown in an institution for your own convenience. While I am still alive, however, I will not tolerate such behavior. I expect you here tonight. Should you fail to comply, upon my word, there will be consequences. I will not condone ungratefulness in my own family!_

_J. C. Prouvaire_

By the time I had finished the letter I felt the need to throw it in the fire. I shoved it in my pocket, quite determined to prevent Jehan from rereading it.

Such words! Such words against one of my dearest friends and the most tender-hearted soul I have ever known! No wonder he was upset! This explained why the letter looked like it had been crumpled. Jehan himself must have been angry upon reading it. And rightfully so, I would add, for I cannot imagine he would treat anyone ill, especially his own mother. The loving manner in which he had spoken of her just minutes ago was proof enough of that.

"Upon my word, Prouvaire, what utter nonsense is this?" I asked, aware that I sounded quite angry.

"It's all true."

"It is not! I don't know what your mother's condition is but a missed Christmas dinner hardly merits such a vicious reprimand!"

"If you knew all the facts… I should have gone to them earlier but… God, how I wanted to stay here with you!"

He covered his face with his hands and remained in that position. I was suddenly gripped by the worrying realization that I was witnessing a friend going through an emotional crisis and I was ill-qualified to help.

My first thought was of fetching Justinien. The second was that he had stepped away from us and I could not count on him like I used to. The third was that the second was ridiculous – he had expressed doubt about our convictions, not renounced our friendship. And the fourth was that I was a grown man and should be able to deal with this.

"Unless you will find it too unpleasant to do so," I began carefully, "I think it would be best to say what needs saying now. I may not be the best person to listen but I am nonetheless your friend and it pains me to see you like this, especially when I don't fully comprehend the reason."

This had no effect for a few moments but then he took a deep breath and wiped his face, seemingly composing himself. His eyes remained fixed somewhere in the direction of the piano. When he started talking his voice was quiet but controlled.

"My mother is of fragile mental health. She was better when I was younger but she has been getting worse with each year. She is now constantly depressed, doesn't leave her room and hardly speaks to anyone. It is my obligation as a son to go and see her regardless of this. However, I find it very difficult to spend time in that house. It pains me to see my mother and my father is… He doesn't…" He made a small pause, apparently looking for a suitable way to put it. "He is not very approving of me and our conversation is rather strained at the best of times."

"Does he know you associate with us and disprove of that?"

"He doesn't know. I have followed your advice to let as few people know as possible, unless they are prospective recruits. But I suspect if he did know, that would be the only thing about me he would not disapprove of. On one hand, Enjolras, I believe that he may be a republican at heart."

I was startled by such a statement but made no comment. I knew, of course, that having republican views did not immediately make someone a good person but how could anyone believe in freedom while at the same time ordering his own son around and threatening with consequences if his orders were not obeyed? No, I was disinclined to believe this but I refrained from saying so as it was irrelevant at present.

"At the same time," Jehan continued, "anything that involves me holding a gun and not a pen is likely to make him happy. He did teach me to shoot. That was however one of the few things we have ever managed to successfully do together. Pleasant meals are not among them. As my mother would not come down for dinner, my Christmas was spent sitting across the table from him and attempting not to anger him. Unsuccessfully, I'm afraid, as everything about me seems to anger him. Your presents were the only good thing I could look forward to, that's why I insisted on saving them for later. I would have given anything to be with you instead of there...

And that is all. Truly, a grown man should not be so upset at such things, or at least should not show it. But I try so hard not to show it in front of mother and father that the rest of the time it just… You are under no oath to keep any of this a secret, Enjolras, you may tell whomever you deem necessary if you wanted to explain, if not excuse, my inadequate behavior."

"Your behavior was perfectly adequate!" I assured him, quite heartbroken over his tale and wondering if that showed on my own face which was, quite contrary to Jehan's, normally free of any excess emotion. "In fact, you make me feel ashamed for putting so much thought into my own petty disagreements with my father for they are truly insignificant. Believe me when I tell you that I have become upset over much less and expressed it in a much less agreeable manner. It involved a lot of angry words and one accidental breaking of my mother's china. Indeed, you have handled it much more like a man."

He finally looked at me and smiled.

"When are we having a meeting, Enjolras? I should really like to see the others."

It was now time for me to look away.

"I am not sure. I was planning on having it this week but there have been some… developments." I took a small breath filled with the unusual spicy smell and exhaled. "Combeferre is out."

Jehan stared at me in perfect astonishment. There was a long moment before he spoke.

"_Combeferre?_ I would have found it hard to believe of _anyone_ but _Combeferre_? Are you sure you are not mistaken."

"There can be no mistake. He spoke to me about it personally. He is now of the opinion that too many lives would be lost during a revolution and he seems more willing to wait for intellectual progress do the work."

To my shame, I was finding it hard to keep the bitterness and skepticism from entering my voice.

"I promote freedom of choice," I added in an attempt to make my previous words sound less like an accusation. "And he has made his. There is nothing to it. I fear, however, that the others may follow his lead. You remember how uncertain they seemed last time."

Jehan shook his head.

"No. No, they can't all leave, I won't accept it. Something has to be done. They have to be reminded…"

"I _tried_ to remind them, Prouvaire. I will try again but I have to be prepared for the possibility that it might have no effect."

"It _has_ to!" said Jehan and looked directly at me. "It has to. They are my family."

They are mine, too, I thought. If only I knew what to say to them…

**End Note:** And thank you again for reading and I will be very happy to hear your thoughts. For those of you curious enough, here is the whole song.

_**Long ago, long ago **_

_**the summer never ended **_

_**but no one ever listened **_

_**to the birds when they would sing**_

_**and angels tried to teach us love**_

_**but we could never understand it. **_

_**And that's why God created winter**_

_**So we would learn to love the spring.**_

_**Sometimes I look at us and think**_

_**Our hearts are getting colder **_

_**But that's the time to look inside**_

_**And find that sleeping seed of love**_

_**And you'll see how with tiny roots**_

_**A flower cracks a boulder**_

_**And in the eyes of the beholder**_

_**How close become the stars above.**_

_**Long ago, long ago**_

_**There weren't any seasons**_

_**And in the sunlight people **_

_**never learned to glow**_

_**When angels brought the dark and cold**_

_**I know they must have had their reasons**_

_**And maybe God created winter**_

_**So we would learn to dream and grow.**_

_**Do you remember, long ago**_

_**We wanted to be older**_

_**We wished upon the falling snow**_

_**For things that we were dreaming of**_

_**And just like then I want to feel**_

_**Your hand upon my shoulder**_

_**You make me braver, make me bolder**_

_**My heart is warmer in your glove.**_

_**And if you never learn to cry**_

_**Then what's the point of laughter**_

_**And winter's not a time to die**_

_**When spring will follow after**_

_**And it's a blessing in disguise**_

_**To come to know that feeling**_

_**That comes from hope that's been reborn**_

_**Or from an **__**wound that's healing.**_


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **See? I was quick this time! Do let me know what you think if you want the quickness to continue ;)

**31****st**** December**

_Revolutions to be planned – 1_

_New Year's balls visited voluntarily – 1 (a record!)_

_Amis won back for the Cause – to be determined but at least one more than I feared_

_Times I silently thanked Courfeyrac for existing – 6 and counting_

_Times I got annoyed by something Grantaire said – about 2 or 3 (very modest)_

Jehan's words and the way he had said them remained in my mind. In addition, I kept humming to myself what I had managed to remember from his mother's song and tried to imagine it had something to do with the occasion. Words spoken in verse do seem to have some sort of special power as they are so easy to repeat and often sound more sensible than something that carries the same meaning but lacks rhythm. Maybe there was something in that talk of winter and spring. Indeed, all possible things had to be done to attempt to bring our friends back into the organization.

And this was why the evening found me in a very peculiar place – a ball. A community ball to celebrate the New Year. At that ball I knew I would find at least three of the people I wanted to talk to and one that I didn't.

Courfeyrac was, predictably, in attendance, as well as Joly and Bossuet and – I had to sigh – Grantaire. All four seemed perfectly astonished to see me there.

"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?" Grantaire greeted me immediately in a rare detour from mythology into English theatre plays.

"Are you wholly incapable of a mere 'hello'?" I could not stop myself from asking although I hardly wanted to invite much further conversation.

He laughed, along with the other three and looked at me with something akin to relief. I didn't think I was being especially friendly but I suppose he had expected worse under the circumstances. I was indeed still slightly angry on account of Feully but, then again, it was Grantaire. I had not hoped for much to start with and at least he had attempted some sort of retribution, even if it was not to my liking.

"A simple 'hello' would hardly be enough to welcome you when you have braved such a frivolous in your eyes event, oh, fairest leader!" he replied.

"I am a man, not a maiden, Grantaire," I informed him irritably. "I have no wish to be called 'fairest'."

He chuckled.

"Fair only in the sense of 'just', I assure you. And a man you most certainly are," he agreed and thankfully said no more on the matter.

Joly reintroduced me to his mistress whom I had met once before and who was at present tugging Bossuet towards the dance floor. She did manage to inspire some small warm feeling in me by the mere fact that she did not attempt to flirt with me at all. I could only be glad that her two cavaliers were proving to be enough. She finally managed to drag her partner to join the other couples despite his good-natured attempts to dissuade her on account of his clumsiness. Courfeyrac looked after them in amusement.

"Truly, Joly, this girl of yours puts me to shame. She is more capricious, more flirtatious and more skillfully manipulative than I could ever hope to be."

"True," Joly agreed with a grin. "And that is because you can never pout so prettily."

"Some would say you should not so readily share her."

"What of it? Musichetta is more than one man can handle on his own and Bernard is a close friend – I would rather share with him than any other."

"A close friendship that is very recent and therefore very fragile. And nothing brings young men apart like a young woman. Be careful, mon ami, it is never worth it. A friend is more precious than a mistress."

Joly laughed with genuine merriment.

"All of your morbid warnings will not affect me in the least, Courfeyrac, I assure you. I have every intention of keeping both my friend and my mistress and we shall get on just fine so long as my health doesn't play a trick on me."

With this he excused himself and hurried to the other side of the ballroom where he was being beckoned by the lady herself. She was laughing and whispering in Bossuet's ear and Bossuet's booming laughter could be clearly heard even where I stood. Courfeyrac chuckled.

"I could almost envy them."

"I regard it as a small display of justice that Joly's good character should be rewarded with a predisposition to be happy in most circumstances," I observed, feeling faintly amused myself at our young hypochondriac's nonchalance, despite having no interest in his romantic affairs.

"What say you to that, Grantaire?" Courfeyrac asked, turning to address him.

"I say that our Jolllly's good character and his happiness are both indisputable but if that happiness is due to justice and not chance, then justice is highly selective, as I have seen other men of good character be unhappy. And that essentially makes Mademoiselle Justice rather unjust."

"Utter nonsense," I muttered, at which Grantaire merely grinned, begged our pardon and disappeared.

As gentlemen were always scarce during such events, he was dancing with some girl not a minute later and Courfeyrac and I were alone.

I could feel he was torn between the desire to keep me company, knowing that I was not likely to be very sociable with the rest of the crowd, and the urge to join in the dancing. Wanting to release him quickly from the obligation to be at my side, I went down to business immediately.

"Courfeyrac, I came here to speak to each of you personally. I have some news that you may find disquieting. Combeferre is no longer with us."

He stared at me for a moment, eyes wide.

"You mean he has left the ABC?"

"Yes."

"Well, good Lord, man! You almost made it sound like he was dead!"

I blinked at him.

"How likely was I to come and announce that at a ball?"

He grinned.

"Not very but then again, how likely were you to come to a ball at all?"

I chose to ignore that, slightly worried by the fact that the news did not in fact seem to have too much of an effect on him. There were two possible explanations for this – either he did not think it was such a devastating loss or he did not think the ABC was that important. The first possibility was unlikely, the second – much undesirable. I relayed them both to him anyway and asked directly which one was the truth. Courfeyrac laughed.

"Oh, but my dear friend, you forget there is a third possibility!"

"What is it?" I asked, trying to hide my impatience.

"I am neither underestimating the importance of the ABC, nor Combeferre's importance in it. I simply believe our good doctor will come around once he has had a little time to think."

There was a pause while I thought that over.

"You are certain of that, Courfeyrac?"

"Are you not?"

"I cannot allow myself to be certain of such things. He is free to do as he pleases."

"You are bitter."

"I am not. I am resigned. I cannot force my views on anyone, much less a close friend of whom I cannot argue that he is ignorant on the matter."

"It doesn't become you to be resigned, Enjolras," he admonished me merrily. "Hear this: I have faith in you, in Combeferre, in the Cause and in all good men working for it. It is true we have been distracted – I admit that for myself at least. I did not listen to you attentively last time – my mind was preoccupied with much more trivial, if indeed rather pleasant matters. I needed a reminder of why we were doing this and my taking Feuilly's place provided that. I should really thank Grantaire for failing to show up or I might not have gotten that opportunity. The working classes, the poor, the People, Enjolras – they need and deserve their freedom, just as you say. And now, mon ami, I know you detest it here. Why don't you go home and I will make sure to speak to Joly and L'Aigle and I will find Bahorel when he returns from the country. You have won them over for the Cause once already, you don't need to do that again. Go home, Enjolras, and plan our next meeting. All will be as it should, or at least as good as it can be made at present."

Without waiting for my reply, he patted my arm and glided away towards the place where Bossuet was now watching Joly and his girl take a turn on the dance floor. I remained standing there for a few more moments, observing Courfeyrac's easy grace and expressive gestures as he made his way across the room, answering each greeting, kissing each hand that needed to be kissed and quickly disentangling himself from conversations without leaving anyone offended or dissatisfied. I watched and I was filled with the warmest feelings towards this man who was in so many ways my opposite and yet his heart was beating to the same battle march and his eyes were looking in the same direction – beyond the walls that separated the children of France and into a fairer future…

Fairer. As if on cue, my musings were interrupted by Grantaire's voice.

"You're not dancing."

I turned to see him standing next to me. At least he did not seem presently drunk and I did observe now that he was somewhat tidier than usual.

"It is not a requirement," I replied.

"It is a ball!"

"Unless you approached me with the intention of asking me yourself, I see no point in this conversation."

My rather cool tone did not discourage him from laughing.

"I was more concerned with the fact that you are both torturing and offending the ladies by being present, yet unavailable."

I glanced around the room. Sure enough, there were girls staring and whispering. There always were. Could they not imply their time in a more sensible manner?

"I did not come to dance," I said shortly.

"Why did you come?"

"I was looking for something."

"Did you find it?"

"Part of it."

"Can I help with the rest?"

"I doubt it. In fact, I think I can leave now."

He cocked his head to one side and surveyed me for a little while as if contemplating a picture in a gallery. Finally, he shrugged.

"Goodnight then, Enjolras."

"Goodnight," I muttered and gratefully slipped away.

All things considered, it could have been much worse. Apparently, Grantaire does behave himself marginally better in public than in our private company. Either that or I had simply not given him enough time to latch into his usual nonsense.

I went home, opened my diary and read and reread Jehan's little poem until I was feeling composed and ready enough to follow Antoine's advice and start planning the next meeting. And come who may.

**End Note:** And the next chapter is the last in this book :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** And thus we end book one. Please do leave some feedback, especially if you want to facilitate the quick posting of the next one. Thanks for reading and I'll see you next time :)

**4****th**** January, 1831**

_Revolutions to be planned – 1!_

As I had expected, Jehan started fretting when I asked him for permission to use the poem. Complained that it wasn't good at all and he had just scribbled it quickly on a whim to cheer me up.

"I do not pretend to be an expert on poetry and I cannot imagine what faults you find with it but that is not the _point_," I argued. "I am not submitting it for a contest. It will be good enough for them, if anything has that chance at all. I am ready to admit, my friend, that when facts and reason fail to engage a man's mind, art might manage to engage his soul. This is a difficult admission for someone who has no skills in any sort of art but that's why I have you."

At this, he finally relented with much blushing.

I delivered the message to each of their homes personally last night but I was careful not to be seen. I didn't want an answer too early – it might have made it harder to go to the Musain tonight. Each message was the same, save for the one I left for Jehan, which only read: 'Thank you. I hope to see you tomorrow.' The rest he already knew.

I went to Fabrice's first, both because it was the farthest and because it gave me confidence. He had already assured me he would be there whenever I decided to call the next meeting. Not that he hadn't given me a bit of a scare before promising that.

Yes, the other day, when I told him about my talk with Combeferre, Feuilly started replying with 'I've had some extra time to think myself lately' and I felt my hairs stand on end. Fortunately, it had not been a prelude to another resignation.

"I have had some extra time to think myself lately," he said, "and I've realized there is some selfishness in my motives for wanting to keep our group going as much as I do. I truly want the freedom of the people with my whole heart but that is not all that drew me to you from the start. I wanted your society – the intelligence and erudition of the circle the chance to contemplate things different from daily bread. I admit now, with the risk of displeasing both you and myself, that it is an escape of a certain kind. I don't think I could stop coming, even if I thought it possible for myself to doubt the revolution." He smiled a little ruefully. "Combeferre, of course, does not have the complexes of a poor orphan so his motives for one or the other are much purer. That has to be applauded."

That little speech left me in a confused state, not knowing how to comment. On one hand, I felt that I should indeed insist that our convictions alone should motivate our participation in this circle. However, it would have been unnecessary preaching to point such things out to Fabrice. I have no doubt at all in his loyalty to the Cause. That he draws some additional pleasure from our company can only flatter me. I could no more blame him for it than I could blame Jehan for seeing us as a family and drawing a degree of comfort from our friendship. Other motives don't matter as long as they both believe.

At the same time, despite my better judgment, I found myself wishing that a similar reason would have been enough to keep Justinien around, even if his faith had faltered. He had pointed out that a man who was not convinced in the necessity of a revolution would be of no use to a bunch of revolutionaries and, yes, that made perfect sense but… Well, it wasn't true in _this_ case. _I _would have felt better if he was there, even if he were to disagree with me.

Yesterday when I went from place to place, I wanted him back so badly that I debated leaving a message for him as well, hoping selfishly that his gentle heart would not bear to disappoint me when I was directly asking him to come. In the end I finally managed to convince myself that such manipulation was beneath me.

After Feuilly I visited Jehan's and after that – Joly's apartment where I was certain the summons would also reach Bossuet. After that it was Bahorel who was by this point back in Paris. I planned to go to Antoine's last so I would end my tour on an optimistic note.

Three who had promised to come. Three uncertain. One not coming.

I passed the Musain and hesitated. Grantaire?

A message was not really necessary in his case. I sometimes leave one but more often not, according to how recently he has managed to make me angry. He hangs around in the Musain too often to miss us and Courfeyrac normally tells him anyway.

I pondered the matter for few more moments before starting to walk again, deciding that just standing there and mulling it over was a waste of time.

When I had distributed all the messages that needed to be distributed, I went home feeling a little edgy. For a period of time things were hanging in the air, undecided, and I couldn't wait for that period to be over. Even if at its end awaited the depressing prospect of losing supporters and maybe drifting away from friends. Because where would I find the time to nurse a friendship that wasn't connected to the revolution in some way?

I went to the Musain early. To have time to look at my notes, I tried to convince myself. Excuses. It was simple impatience. The backroom was empty, not even a drunk to be seen in the corner. Although I really was thankful for that. I could not have born to wait with Grantaire there. As soon as I arrived I thought I shouldn't have gone early. I should have been late if anything. If I was late I could just walk into the room in a hurry, glance around to see how many people were present and hide my reaction by beginning my presentation right away, to whoever was there. By coming before the arranged time, I had forced myself to go through the torture of watching as people came or didn't come through the door. The others must have thought of that because not a single other person was early. Courfeyrac and Prouvaire came on time, both giving me forced optimistic smiles in defiance of the empty room. Feuilly was a five minutes late, this being his first day back to work.

"Nicely done," the worker said with a meaningful smile in Prouvaire's direction.

Jehan, quickly figuring out the praise was meant for his poem which had comprised most of my message to my troops, blushed and quickly proceeded to inquire after his health.

Then, to my relief, Bahorel showed up as well, instigating first a polite inquiry and then a lively argument with Courfeyrac about the well-being of his four sisters whom Courfeyrac had apparently met once before when they had visited their brother and now insisted country air was not good for them and they should move to the city. And so the four of them talked and pointedly did not look at the clock on the wall which showed that we were quite late to start while I sat and wondered when I should put a stop to this small spectacle. Before I could decide to do that though, the door opened again and Grantaire walked in, holding a piece of paper at eye-level and reciting in loud voice.

"_I know you'll follow to the end/ but will you follow after?/ The river slows around the bend/ and greatness turns to laughter./ Will you have hope and dreams enough/ for everyone to borrow/ for when Tomorrow has arrived/ to dream about Tomorrow?_"

Joly and L'Aigle tiptoed into the room after him, giving me apologetic looks and quickly choosing places to sit down.

"_Hearts grow accustomed to the cold/ and minds are quick to tire/ but we can prove its warmth is worth/ rekindling the fire_," finished Grantaire, and clapped his hands in an overblown manner. "Bravo, little Jehan! I could almost believe I was really invited to the gathering of a literary society."

I glanced sideways to find the poet, predictably, turning an alarmingly red colour, especially when Grantaire's words prompted the others to start congratulating him as well and assuring him this had been the most inspiring summons to a meeting they had ever received. And only now did I allow myself to breathe a sigh a relief. They were all here, save for the one I knew would not come.

"We're sorry we're late," Joly apologized when the chatter had died down. "But we were dining at the Corinth and Bossuet choked on an oyster…"

"And when Grantaire clapped me on the back, I leaned forward and my chair slipped backwards and I hit my head on the edge of the table and Marcel insisted on making sure I didn't have a concussion," Bossuet finished and laughed as if receiving a bump on his head was the most entertaining thing that could have happened to him.

"Ah, but I was concerned myself!" Grantaire exclaimed with an artificial air of distress. "A concussion may have disrupted your bad luck and then where would the rest of us be? M. Lesgle has but one great talent and that is misfortune! It can be used! I suggest we dress him in a uniform and put him in charge of the National Guard! Then we may indeed have a chance of taking Paris."

Bossuet laughed, some of the others chuckled and I resisted the urge to groan.

"Grantaire, you have three seconds to shut up and sit down."

"As you wish, my lord and master."

While I seethed at being called 'lord and master', he gave a mocking little bow and took his usual place. You are infuriating, I thought. Infuriating. But you are here and he isn't. And where does that put you both?

Combeferre has so much to offer – ideas and guidance and effort. Yet I would have gladly surrendered those things in exchange for his simple presence, rather than losing that too just because he didn't deem it enough to matter. And all _Grantaire_ ever offers to anyone is his presence and that really isn't much and I don't believe I will ever stop wanting more from him...

I realized that everyone had quieted down and turned their faces towards me. There was a pause. I looked at them and, for the moment, rather than regretting the seat that was empty, I was glad for those that were full.

"Thank you for being here. _All_ of you. And now about our failing economy…"

**_End of Book 1_**

**End Note****: Once again, thanks for reading and reviewing. I hope to see you all in the next installment.**

I know you'll follow to the end

But will you follow after?

The river slows around the bend

And greatness turns to laughter.

Will you have hope and dreams enough

For everyone to borrow

For when Tomorrow has arrived

To dream about Tomorrow?

Hearts grow accustomed to the cold

And minds are quick to tire

But we can prove its warmth is worth

Rekindling the fire.


End file.
